IWWH
I
Walked
with
Heroes
General Carlos P. Romulo
"A small man from a small country" is
how Carlos P. Romulo describes himself,
but this "small man" has in the course of
his life helped lead his country s struggle
for freedom, presided over the United
Nations General Assembly and the Secu
rity Council, fought against the Commu
nists, written ten books, and become a
heroic symbol for the world-wide
struggle against inequality.
Not until he was almost fifty was Gen
eral Romulo able to breathe the free air
of his own country. Until that time he
fought for Philippine independence
ur^der such leaders as Manuel L. Quezon,
Sergio Osmefia, Manuel A. Roxas, and
his own father and grandfather. As he
gained in stature among his own people
he nonetheless turned down the oppor
tunity to become president of the Philip
pines in order to serve in the larger arena
of the United Nations. In his account,
interspersed with recollections of happy
family life on the Island of Luzon, are
(Continued on hacl^ flap)
1 ticket design by Ben Feder, Inc.
92 R768 63-19171 $5.00
Rornulo, Carlos Pena, 1899-
92 R76S 65-19171 $5.00
Ronwlo, Carlos Pena, 1899-
I walked with heroes.
N.I., ttolt, Rinehart and
Winston C1961]
342p. illus. V. A
OCT 1S63
I Walked with Heroes
BOOKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR
I Saw the Fall of the Philippines
Mother America
My Brother Americans
I Saw the Philippines Rise
The United
Crusade in Asia
The Meaning of Bandung
Friend to Friend (with Pearl Buck)
The Magsaysay Story (with Marvin M. Gray)
/ Walked with Heroes
GENERAL
CARLOS P. ROMULO
I Walked with Heroes
ILLUSTRATED WITH PHOTOGRAPHS
HOLT, RINEHART AND WINSTON
NEW YORK CHICAGO SAN FRANCISCO
Copyright 1961 by Philip Andrew Wells,
trustee under the Carlos P. Romulo Trust
All rights reserved, including the right to repro
duce this book or portions thereof in any form.
Published simultaneously in Canada by Holt,
Rinehart and Winston of Canada, Limited.
Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 61-6405
Published, February, 1961
Second Printing, September, 1961
Third Printing, October, 1962
Fourth Printing, January, 1963
87558-0111
Printed in the United States of America
For my grandchildren
CARLOS III
MIGUEL ANTONIO
VIRGINIA CARIDAD
RODRIGO LUIS
ALESSANDRA TERESA
and all children this book is
written with hopes of the time to
come, when no child shall lie down
in terror or waken to hunger, but
shall know himself as a being of
unique value in a safer and
kindlier world.
KANSAS CITY (MO.) PUBLIC LIBRARY
Young Adult
6319171
Acknowledgment
IT HAS been said that a man s life may be divided into four chap
ters: creation, realization, appreciation, and recollection. He begins
by creating; what he creates becomes a reality. The reality is either
appreciated or not; then comes the perspective of years, he looks
back at his yesterdays reminiscence, recollection.
I am grateful to Beth Day, of the Reader s Digest, who first sug
gested the idea of my writing these memoirs; and to Harry Shaw,
formerly Editor in Chief of Henry Holt & Company, Inc., who
came to me and urged me to begin indulging in recollection and to
set my reminiscences in print He wrote me several letters before I
even started to consider the idea, and after two meetings with him
at the Waldorf s Peacock Alley such was his persuasive power I
finally gave in and consented to broach the subject to my literary
agent, Harold Matson.
A word about Hal Matson: After eighteen years of close associa
tion with him I can say that as an author I have consistently fol
lowed his suggestions because I have found them unerringly sound.
I have placed every worthwhile manuscript I have written in his
hands and his judgment I never questioned and he has always been
proved right. There are many honest men in our world, but none I
would trust as blindly as I trust Hal.
I should have started with Evelyn Wells, than whom I never had
a more loyal or devoted friend. I first met her in San Francisco in
1942, when I landed in that city from Bataan and was indeed a lost
soul. Since then she has been my editorial guide, adviser, and able
2 I Walked with Heroes
and patient collaborator; she has stood by me all these years of my
writing career as no single individual has, and I want to make of
record my profound and abiding gratitude to her for all that she
has given me, especially for her friendship that I will treasure al
ways. Because of my heavy daily schedule these memoirs would
never have seen the light of day had it not been for her constant
urging, her encouragement and inspiration. When I say I walked
with heroes I should add that I also worked with a heroine, a heroine
in abnegation and selflessness, my dear friend Evelyn.
I count myself fortunate that in the publication of these memoirs
I had a patient and understanding editor, Beulah Harris, whose
competence won my admiration, and I want to make of record also
my sincere appreciation for her valuable cooperation.
Miss Iluminada Panlilio, my tireless and efficient secretary, spent
her entire summer vacation typing my manuscript; Mrs. Milagros
Valderrama assisted her; Mr. Manuel A. Viray checked my histori
cal data; my former secretaries Misses Helen M. Rumple, Marjorie
da Costa, Marjorie Cooke, and particularly Anne Dragon, who had
attended with me many international conferences, had kept a com
plete file of my correspondence and records from which I drew ex
tensively for my facts. To each and every one of them my sincere
thanks.
C.P.R.
I Walked with Heroes
One
OTHER lives may find their happiest moments infiltrated with
tragedy, and their proudest touched with comedy. This has al
most invariably been true of mine. My proudest hour found
me, the newly elected president of the United Nations, perched
atop three thick New York City telephone books given me in
lieu of a cushion that I might see and be seen by the delegates
below the podium.
A small man from a small country had been awarded the priv
ilege of speaking for his country in the world s highest court
the first Asian to be given that honor. "The barefoot boy of
diplomacy" had come a long way from the quiet provincial
town of Camiling.
Camiling lies in the hilly farm section of the province of
Tarlac on the island of Luzon. When my wife and I take our
grandchildren there they are puzzled by the smallness of my
birthplace. "Why are there no tall buildings?" they ask me.
"Why are the houses only one story high? Where are the side
walks and why are the roads full of dust?"
Then I try to explain how Camiling has changed since I was
a little boy. It has grown, its population now is thirty thousand,
and it has a modern market and a motion picture theater on the
Plaza. The church has been remodeled, but the old convent and
the brick building where I started public school still face on that
pretty little park, and it is much the same as it was on that day,
almost sixty years ago, when I found Clemente hanging there.
In those days of our lost innocence, mine and CamiHng s,
there wasn t a bathtub or a telephone or a piece of machinery
6 I Walked with Heroes
in our town. Now as I look up, always nervously, when a jet
plane darts over the hills I realize how we have changed since
this century began myself, my town, and my world.
It has been said each man lives many lives. The oddity of mine
is in their complete diversity. Each might have been lived in a
different country and a different age. Not one emerged from
another or resembles another.
Each time the change has come with shocking swiftness and
as a complete surprise. Not once did I ask for it, nor was I pre
pared in any way.
Why these many changes to me? And how did they come
about? To understand, I must think my way back through these
differing lives.
Again and again I have reached what seemed to be the point
of no return. At each new start I resolved to do my best. Each
time, just as I reached the plateau of achievement in my new
role, the world would whirl under my feet and I would find my
self adjusting to a new career and a new point of view.
In reviewing these shifts in fortune I am struck by the fact
that I entered each new career thinking it would be my life s
work and determined to make it a success, and each time I was
just on the mark of achieving that success when the lightning
struck.
For example, I was happy when I was a student, looking for
ward to a teaching career. I satisfied that ambition while still
very young. I taught English at the University of the Philip
pines, was made head of the English Department, and later I was
elected to the Board of Regents. I looked forward to a long, use
ful, and uneventful life as an educator, and to a ripe and revered
old age as friend and guide to the young.
So what happened? I found myself a crusading editor and up
to my neck in Philippine politics.
As a newspaperman I determined to be the best I could pos
sibly be. I worked incredible hours. I became editor in chief of
a newspaper chain. I had security, and the power and excite-
I Walked with Heroes 7
ment only a newspaper top executive can know. All this I threw
over to follow the political hazards cast by our great leader,
Manuel L. Quezon.
Slowly I rebuilt my way to the command of another chain of
newspapers. Reporter as well as publisher, I won the award that
is every newspaperman s dream, the Pulitzer prize.
In my career and my personal life I was a happy man.
Manila held all I loved my wife and four sons and our beau
tiful home, where we entertained friends from all over the
world.
Pearl Harbor shattered the idyl. My family vanished behind
the battle lines and for years I would not know if they were liv
ing or dead.
All I loved, all I had accomplished were gone. The Philippines
was the captive of Japan. I was homeless, my family and my
fortune lost.
I always say I did not enter the war; I was tossed in. One day
I was a peaceful publisher and the next I was the most un-
military soldier ever to don a United States uniform, made for
him overnight.
The end of World War II found me a general, entitled to
wear all the Philippine and American decorations the military
authorities had seen fit to give me. Meantime I had turned lec
turer, and crisscrossed the United States on speaking tours in an
effort to bring the Filipino point of view to the American
people.
There was the return at MacArthur s side to the Philippines,
the almost incredible miracle of finding my family, and the
pressing need, once the excitement was over, of starting the long
way up again.
The Philippines and I were both nearing the half-century
mark. My country was looking forward to the freedom for
which we had fought and prayed for half a century. I could not
afford freedom. I had, thank God, a family in need of my
support.
8 I Walked with Heroes
As usual I was given no time to ponder this problem. As if by
magic I was transformed into a diplomat.
Always I had regarded myself as one of the most forthright
and undiplomatic of men. Many times I have heard myself wail,
"Now what have I done? " when summoned before some august
tribunal. Usually I had been brash enough to tell the truth when
silence was wanted.
I was totally ignorant of the intricate art of diplomacy on
any level. Nevertheless I was made Philippine Resident Com
missioner, then Ambassador, and sent as the head of the Philip-
pine delegation to the founding of the United Nations at San
Francisco.
Four years later I was elected president of the General As
sembly.
Those close to me know the reason for my pride in that
honor. In speaking for the Philippines I was speaking also for
all the other small nations that had been for so many centuries
voiceless.
Like all my other careers this came to me with unexpected
swiftness. Looking back I can see that the branches of my life
were not so far apart from one another as they seemed. I did not
change my identity when I left an old career for the new.
Together they form a pattern. Each experience stayed with
me, growth over growth, to form the protective armor I wear
today.
The mind and heart waste nothing. Each phase of life con
tributes to the whole man.
Under the layers of armor I am what I was in my earliest days,
with all the flaws and weaknesses and ideals peculiar to man. If
certain emotions seem stronger in me than in the average man
it is because I have not lived an average life. Within, I tremble
against injustice and with a passion for freedom. I felt those
emotions first as a very young child. They have never left me.
For freedom, for myself or others, I have always been willing
to fight, and at times to die.
I Walked with Heroes 9
Call this egotism if you will, but it is every man s right to be
subservient to no other man. In me the will toward freedom
has prevailed over all the other emotions I have experienced to
their fullest, having been son and lover, husband and father and
grandfather, provider of security for those I love, and their de
fender in a threatening world.
It is not of the outer adventures of my many lifetimes I write
now. I have told of them in other books. Instead, I hope to re
veal the man who survives under the layers of armor and the
changes that have shaped him while shaping his world. I have
never written of this man before and no one knows all of him,
not even I.
But I shall try to be honest about this curious, complex fellow,
who is still student and teacher and soldier, reporter and editor
and writer, and, lastly diplomat. And who, despite these many
changes, remains in part the child Carlos, who was born just be
fore this century began in the town of Camiling.
How could I fail to know change, born as I was at the start of
this century, which in the long tomorrow may prove to be the
most terrifying, revolutionary, and yet hopeful, of all the
world s centuries?
Revolution, flaring up in France and America, had fired the
Philippines with the determination to break free of Spain. I was
born just as my country achieved that freedom, so in a sense I
may say the Philippines and I have grown up together.
Our forces under Aguinaldo won their final victory and
proclaimed the Philippines a free and independent republic in
Malolos, Bulacan, on January 23, 1899, nine days after I was
born. That republic lasted but ten days, and almost half a cen
tury would roll by before the Republic of the Philippines was
reborn.
But for the first ten days of my life I was a free citizen in an
independent country, and I like to remember that. Much of my
io I Walked with Heroes
adult life would be spent in the fight to regain that lost freedom.
During that time we grew up, my country and I.
Despite war and threats of annihilation the Republic of the
Philippines is on the map, and so, to my constant surprise, am L
This then is the story of a man and his world.
It is the story of a nation many times reborn and of its people,
who led by their heroes have had to fight their way into the
realm of human dignity.
In the i94o s wherever I lectured in the United States Ameri
cans came by thousands to hear a Filipino a man from the
Orient tell of the fight for democracy being waged in the
Philippines. To me this history of the Philippines is the history
of our new world, for the struggle is not confined to the Philip
pines; the whole world is massed together in a surge toward
individual freedom. This movement, which has been gathering
force over the first half of this century, owes much of its im
petus to the Philippines.
Three years before I was born our greatest revolutionary
leader, Jose Rizal, was executed by the Spanish for planting
ideas in the Filipino mind that later were to arouse our people
to fight for freedom. His murder fired the Islands with greater
ardor, and open revolution began when a new leader, Andres
Bonifacio, led the first action against Spain at the village of
Balintawak, Bulacan province. That shrine with its monument,
"The Cry of Balintawak/ corresponds in the Philippines to
America s Concord bridge.
My grandfather, father, and uncles took part in that revolu
tion. My oldest brother remembers that during those war years
Spanish friars disguised as servants lived with us. The friars must
have felt at home in our casa with its many religious oil paintings
brought to the Philippines by our Spanish ancestors. I knew
nothing of all this, for I made my appearance on the scene as
the fighting with Spain ended.
But my country s troubles were not over.
The Philippines was a very small mouse trapped between two
I Walked with Heroes 1 1
great lions. A shrinking Spain was fighting to the death to hold
our islands. One year before, America had declared war against
Spain. While the Filipinos fought, America flexed her muscles
and watched with profound interest the struggle in the Pacific.
For an understanding of the way we won our freedom I rec
ommend the reading of Margaret Leech s prize-winning biog
raphy, In the Days of McKinley.
All too often a fluke can make or unmake history. By chance,
as the last Spanish forces capitulated on Luzon, Admiral Dewey
was stationed with his fleet at Hong Kong, off China s coast
only seven hundred miles away.
So it was that on the night of February 4, r 899, ten days after
the Philippines had proclaimed itself a free nation, bands of war-
weary Filipino soldiers found themselves fighting a new enemy
outside Manila s historic walls.
The new enemy was America.
American soldiers, better equipped, trained, and fed, fresh in
the field and spoiling for action, swung into the combat the
Filipinos thought had ended. By morning it was over. The
Americans had won. That day Emilio Aguinaldo issued a dec
laration of war against the United States.
The United States hastily ratified its treaty with Spain and
rushed shiploads of soldiers to the Philippines.
The exhausted Filipinos fought on, taking to the hills and
guerrilla warfare. Among the fighters in the hills around Garni-
ling was my father. My first memories of him are of his secret
visits to our home by night for clean clothing and food.
The protest ended in the spring of 1 90 1 , when Aguinaldo was
captured by Brigadier General Frederick Funston, by trickery,
we were told. The year 1902 brought final surrender.
Although there had been years of fighting and but ten days of
independence, yet those ten days had seen the birth of the Fili
pino dream of freedom that would never die.
When final surrender came I was only three years old, but
1 2 I Walked with Heroes
already there were implanted in my small impressionable soul
the beginnings of a rebel.
The guns of war reverberated in our hills, but Camiling itself
was a peaceful town, quiet, off the beaten track, surrounded by
rice fields planted in rows, tier on tier against the skyline.
The houses were mostly nipa huts, with here and there a two-
story balconied casa. Our house was the Spanish type and so
was my grandfather s across the street. The two houses were
about four blocks from the Plaza, which was the center of the
town. They were alike except that ours was larger, for our
family was growing. They were soundly built of brick, with
tile roofs and long balconies, and within, the high-ceilinged
rooms were lined with Philippine hardwood. Their large win
dows gave a sense of airiness, coolness, comfort, and elegance,
so welcome in a tropical climate, and I was sorry when some
years ago my brother had our old home torn down and replaced
with a modern split-level farmhouse. Nothing can ever excel
the comfort and dignity of those old Spanish casas.
The furnishings had been brought to the Islands centuries be
fore by my mother s people on the Spanish galleons that came
once a year to the Philippines and returned to Spain by way of
California and Mexico. The dark, carved, richly polished furni
ture armchairs and consoles and tables had also come from
the Old World. The crystal chandelier and the family altar with
its tall image of the Virgin holding her Son were from Spain.
So were most of the oil paintings, dark and old and as richly
colored as church windows. Some were family portraits, but
most of them were religious. My favorite was the large repro
duction of "The Last Supper" that hung in our dining room.
Many of these valued family possessions were in my home in
Manila and were lost when that home was destroyed by the
Japanese.
Our house and grandfather s had lovely gardens. Ours went
all around the house, but my thrifty grandparents planted orna-
I Walked with Heroes 13
mental shrubs and trees only before their house, for in the rear
were the big sheet-iron camarins where rice and corn were
stored against an advance in price. Around the camarins my
grandparents had planted fruit-bearing trees.
I was brought up to respect the land. We were not rich but
we were comfortably well-off, and I learned early that all we
had came to us from the land. Our tenants worked the family
farms by the kasama (share) system, giving back part of the
produce to the owners in old Spanish style.
Camiling was a typical Filipino town, with an overlay of the
Orient, and its people were modest, sweet-tempered, and digni
fied whether rich or poor. Spanish was spoken along with our
several dialects Pangasinan, Ilocano, Tagalog, and Pampango
In our home, by speech, manner, religion, and heritage, we
were Malay and Spanish; in the home of my grandparents the
heritage was pure Malayan. Also from my mother s side came
the old family names we would in turn give our children: Pena,
Sison, Cabrera.
We were an affectionate family, and our grandparents home
was like an extension of our own. Also close to our lives were
the aunts and uncles and their families, who lived in other homes
scattered about Camiling. There would be times as I grew that
our town seemed like one large family group, for everyone
seemed related to me in some fashion. I knew everyone, and
everyone was kind to a small, trusting boy.
Priests from the church, nuns from the convent, shopkeepers,
farmers in from the hills, all were my friends. The closer circle
of intimacy was formed by parents and grandparents, sisters and
brothers, cousins and uncles and aunts.
The world would expand as I grew and my own importance
would lessen in my mind with the years, but I have never lost
the sense of security that came of being the petted and priv
ileged small member of a large, affectionate family group.
Around us was the exciting life of Camiling, beyond, the un
explored and waiting world, and over us all was God.
14 I Walked with Heroes
Under such circumstances a small boy with a healthy amount
of self -pride could know himself to be the exact center of his
universe. Children know their importance and it is their right.
To cut down any of their self-esteem is a crime against God.
I was fortunate. Among my most valued attributes is the ca
pacity for happiness. I can marvel now that this quality devel
oped during a time when all the older people around me were
oppressed by fear. Under the stress of revolution, the constant
threat of torture or death, our elders never permitted the chil
dren to suspect that all might not be well. Although I was aware
that my father was in danger, at the same time I was conscious
of the security of the family circle and Camiling, and that
watching over us always was the familiar, mysterious, frighten
ing but trustworthy presence of God.
God knew everybody, saw all we did, and my infantile mind
held Him in awe. I knew exactly the way He looked, and He
bore a distinct resemblance to my grandfather.
I remember little of Don Alberto Romulo, for he died when
I was still young, but I recall a presence of great kindliness and
dignity, which for some reason inspired in me a similar feeling
of awe. I had no such reservations toward my father, who in
appearance and manner was very like my grandfather. Both
were typically Malayan in appearance, and father and son
shared a dominant trait of gentle, almost knightly, courtesy.
But my father, Gregorio Romulo, had none of his father s
severity. Father was good-natured, had a wide streak of fun,
and knew how to play with children. At times he played with
me as if he were himself a child, but then he would be serious
and talk to me in older terms; still I would understand. I never
had reason to fear him, but because I loved and respected him
his word was law.
Toward my mother, Maria Pena Romulo, he was loving and
respectful; she was the same toward him. The courtesy they
showed each other was reflected in our family life. Love and
formality ruled our home, and one did no harm to the other. In
I Walked with Heroes 15
the intimacy of home we might relax in every way except re
spect.
In Spanish the familiar "you" is tu, the formal, Usted.
Brothers, sisters, and servants, and a spouse, can be addressed by
the informal tu. I used the formal address when I spoke to my
father or mother, grandparents and godparents, uncles and
aunts and older cousins, and even my older sister, Lourdes. I
used the polite phrases that lend courtesy to Spanish and Fili
pino life, and when I left the house or returned to it I kissed the
hands of my father and mother and any older person who
chanced to be there. Returning from play, studies, or Mass I
paid them this small honor gladly, because it showed my love.
In our home Spanish and Oriental traditions were combined,
and both respect parental authority and age. Parents keep their
position of authority in the home not through fear but through
respect.
I believe it is a good thing to respect older people. My sons in
many ways have been Americanized, educated in the United
States, but in the home they still address their mother and me as
Usted.
My grandsons, for reasons of their own, call me Captain
Hook!
I have been lenient with my children, but there were certain
ironclad rules, and one of these was respect for parental author
ity. There has been no need to emphasize this, for the rule was
based on love. I do not think it did me any harm, nor has it
harmed my sons. Each in turn grew into men I respect as well
as love; each does his best, and the family as a group is of primary
importance to all of them.
I make no pretense of knowing child psychology. I have al
ways loved children, starting with my small brothers and sisters
as they entered my life. But I believe that a child who has love
and respect for his family and recognizes the over-all authority
of God is a happy child, and a happy child makes a successful
adult.
1 6 I Walked with Heroes
There are doubtless other systems, but I was content with
this one, and my sons, in their turn, have never complained.
For my own father I had intense admiration. He was always
handsomely groomed; his mustache, white as I remember it y
was carefully trimmed, and even in the hottest weather, when
other men wore only a white camisa or shirt, he wore not only
his coat, but a vest, and carried a cane. Despite his great dignity
he was rapid in speech and movement, characteristics I inher
ited from him.
He was openly affectionate, and when deeply moved, he
would weep. It annoyed him that he could not hide his emo
tions, and he greatly admired my mother for her ability to con
trol even her tears. Once when I was older he said to me:
"There is this difference between the civilized man and the un
civilized: the cultured man can always control his emotions*
Emotions are for private use."
He was not being fair to himself. He was cultured and the
most civilized man I have ever known. And when grief came
and we would see his tears, we loved him the more for them.
Our mother s emotions ran as deeply as his, but she covered
hers with a dignity that at times seemed like coldness, although
her family knew better. In temperament she was a complete
reversal of what is considered "Spanish." The Filipinos are as a
rule as emotional as the Latins, and my Malayan father was no
exception to his race.
There was never any doubt in our home as to the real source
of family authority. My mother ruled us with a velvet scepter.
Small and soft-spoken, she reigned with the discipline of love.
She had been a beauty when she was young, and she carried the
authority of beauty until she was very old.
After MacArthur returned to the Philippines and I had been
sent back to the United States to make my report to Congress
on conditions in Manila, American soldiers liberated Camiling.
Frank Hewlitt, interviewing my mother for the United Press,
I Walked with Heroes 17
described her as a small woman, widowed, and "with the dig
nity of a Spanish queen."
I read that interview in Washington, and I realized that I had
never seen her behave in a manner unworthy of a queen.
One of my favorite childhood memories of her is of the day
our house caught on fire. Mother calmly called her six children
about her, ushered her brood out of the house as sedately as if
we were going to church, and stood us in line in the middle of
the street. She counted us quickly, "One-two-three-four-five-
six," warned us not to move, went calmly back into the burning
house, and came out carrying boxes containing family docu
ments. Putting these down beside us, she made a brisk recount,
"One-two-three-four-five-six," warned us again not to stir, re
turned into the house, and came back with more valued posses
sions. She did this again and again until the fire was out, and each
rime she counted us in line like an army on parade.
We thought it typical of Mother s foresight and efficiency
that she had the six of us divided equally as to sexes, a boy and a
girl, a boy and a girl, a boy and a girl. In that way all had part
ners and nobody felt left out. With such a neat arrangement
there could be no sibling rivalry. We played no favorites in our
home and, looking back, I can find no instance of my favoring
one brother or sister more than another. If I spent more time
with Lourdes it was because she was closest to me in interests
and years.
My mother dressed us alike according to sexes: the girls in
short gingham frocks for every day and ruffled white for
church, and the boys in tight short pants, white ruffled shirts,
and small caps. All over America and in England small boys
dressed like that as this century was beginning.
Whatever we did, we did as a group. The six of us left the
house and returned to it together. We played, went on picnics
on the banks of the Camiling River near our home, and visited
relatives, always together. We started grammar school in
1 8 I Walked with Heroes
closely knit relays. We six grew up together. We still find time
to come together, and thank God for the privilege.
How lucky we are that there has been no break in our circle.
Adult living enforced separate ways, but I believe my brothers
and sisters and I are successful because we have all had happy
personal lives, and in my mind that is the highest success. Be
fore family content all other honors are as dust.
My oldest brother, Enrique, is a physician.
My sister Lourdes, the second child, married Carlos Kipping,
son of an English engineer who helped lay down the tracks of
the Manila-Dagupan railroad.
I am next in line, and have no quarrel with the life that has
been mine.
My sister Soledad married a Justice of the Supreme Court,
Cesar Bengzon.
Gilberto, like myself, became a teacher. He has a private
school in Camiling and is the manager of the government s
Charity Sweepstakes.
Josefina, the baby of the family, married Alfredo Eugenio,
an engineer who did such good work before the war as Civil
Defense Administrator of the Philippines.
We have, all six of us, led fairly well-balanced lives. The
tragedies we have known have been the inevitable results of ill
ness, death, or war. We have carried no inner grievances. The
happiness we knew as children has remained steadfast, and in
my mind it is owed, along with such content as we have
achieved, to the affectionate, protective Catholic home in which
we were allowed to stretch our expanding personalities to their
fullest, but never to the extent of crowding another personality.
Our parents drew for us a firm line in respect to our dignity and
that of others, and the training would serve us well when we
took our places in the outer world.
Two
MY FORMAL education began while Camiling was still taking
an active part in the protest against America. I could not have
been more than three years old when my elders decided it was
time I learned the alphabet.
The school I attended was the most exclusive in the town I
was the only pupil. Classes were held across the street in my
grandmother s home, and she was both faculty and principal.
Young as I was, I had firm opinions concerning my natural
rights. It seemed an infraction of liberty to be forced to study
inside while the other children played out-of-doors. My older
brother had suffered this course and was in public school. Some
times my sister Lourdes accompanied me, but most of the time
I went my laggard way alone.
At ten every morning I was forced from my home and across
the street, urged on by cries from both houses. I made the cross
ing last as long as I dared. Scowling, I would enter the big cool
room where my Grandmother was waiting, erect and formi
dable in a straight-backed Spanish chair. Dona Juana Besacruz
Romulo was dignified and charming, and I dearly loved her. But
how I hated those implements of torture: the "infant" books in
Spanish, the pencils, and slate. In one hand she held like a scepter
a long-handled, ivory back-scratcher such as all the Chinese
stores sold in those days. I dreaded it! If I forgot and let my
thoughts wander to the cries of play coming through the win
dows, down that scratcher snapped on my tender knuckles
with the sting of a red ant.
But I knew how loving she could be when I tried to do well,
and how precious was her praise!
19
20 I Walked with Heroes
Learning was easy for me, and I enjoyed my lessons when I
could close my mind to the fun going on outside. I began my
ABC s in Spanish at Grandmother s knee. When I recited with
out an error she was pleased and praised me in her soft, limpid
Pangasinan. Sometimes my grandfather would stand in the
doorway, looking tall and very old, and he also would show
his pleasure that little Carlos was showing such aptitude for
learning.
But my mind wandered from the letters and my body ached
to be free. I was not amenable to routine and never would be.
Later I would learn to submit to it because it saved time and
trouble in the end, but that was a lesson I had not learned at the
age of three.
With each morning that trip to Grandmother s became more
undesirable. My bare toes clung to the warm velvety dust. I
was Shakespeare s schoolboy, creeping at snail s pace, my eyes
seeking any loophole that might offer a chance to escape.
I found it one morning when Grandmother s attention was
distracted by men carrying farm produce into the sheet-iron
camarms. The door of one of the storehouses stood open while
the sacks of rice were carried inside. By keeping well to leeward
of the workers I was able to dart unseen through that door.
It was dim and hot and dusty within. I hid behind the piled
sacks of sweet-smelling grain and did my best not to sneeze.
Then someone closed the door and I knew I was safe. I was also
hot and dusty. But free.
The hours went by and the noonday sun beating down on
the tin roof made the camarin almost unbearable. My throat was
dry with thirst and dust and I had never been so miserable. I
was also very happy.
Why did freedom, even in hiding, mean so much to me?
I could hear my name being called, the sound circling round
the house and then the orchard. I snuggled deeper into my dusty
lair.
Of course I was discovered after a few hours and dragged
I Walked with Heroes 21
out in disgrace, but I was still pleased with the disturbance I had
caused and the missed hours of study.
After that I took to hiding in the orchard until the camarin
was opened and then slipping inside. When that was discovered,
orders were issued that anyone opening the camarin must stand
guard at the door until it was safely locked again. From my
hiding place in the orchard I could hear the men warning one
another, "Watch out for little Carlos. Don t let him slip past! "
I found other hiding places. My favorite tree was a guava
behind Grandmother s house. Its thick, leafy branches made of
it a great green tent, much cooler and nicer than the sheds. Its
branches spread into wonderful nesting places, and best of all
they were heavy with ripe guavas, which were and are still
one of my favorite fruits. Now I could rest in comfort and no
longer suffer hunger or thirst.
This too was discovered, and each time I disappeared I would
hear the summons, "Search the orchard! " I had to give up hiding
in the tree.
All the ingenuity of an inventive child was taxed in finding
my next hiding place. Behind the house, as with most of the
houses in Camiling, was the open well. The large wooden
bucket was lowered into this by a bamboo pole. I discovered I
could use the bucket as a seat and lower myself into the well by
sliding down the bamboo pole, hand over hand. It was dark and
cold and earthy down there and certainly not comfortable, but
I was charmed with my discovery, for who would think of
looking for a child down a well! The sound of my name being
called overhead made fine reverberations in my damp cave.
"Carlos! Carlitos! We know where you are! "
But they didn t know, and I had outwitted the grownups and
was pleased with myself.
But the adult world was too clever for me. Soon a servant
came to the well for water and I was hauled up like a damp kit
ten and delivered, unrepentant, into my grandmother s hands.
Dona Juana had a grandson with a will as stubborn as her own.
22 I Walked with Heroes
After that, they no longer set guards over my hiding places;
they watched me.
So, reluctantly, alternating with whacks from the ivory
scratcher, I worked my way through the Spanish ABC s, the
Cartilla (primer), and the Caton (maxims). And when I had
done well my good grandmother taught me my infant prayers
and the rudiments of our religion in the form of stories of the
saints. She also told me the history and legends and folklore of
the Philippines and its people all in Spanish.
Dear Bae (our pet name for her) . If I were a fairy godfather
and could grant a wish to every child in the world I would wish
for each one such a grandmother as mine. I believe in grand
mothers for children. The part mine played in helping to shape
my life is beyond calculation. I owe her much, and most of all
for her enduring patience with one who must at times have been
a most exasperating little boy.
I wish now I had listened with greater care and remembered
more of all she told me, for in a wonderful way she wove the
history of our family into the tapestry of the Philippines.
Actually, comparatively little is known about the origin of
the Filipino race, but later, when I studied the anthropological
and historical background of my country, I was amazed to re
member how much my grandmother had known and how
closely her stories, told to a child, adhered to history.
I was not a good listener. I wanted to be out and away. But
much that she said stuck in my memory and is with me still. For
she was relating to me the origin of that curious small rebel,
myself, and history as it relates to his own being can be fascinat
ing even to a very small child.
The Philippines, like the United States, is made up of many
kinds of people. The Filipino is a curious creature, a conglom
eration of many races and cultures. In direct descent he is the
civilized product of the Malayan race.
My grandmother could not tell me from whence her Malayan
ancestors came and neither do the historians know the origin
I Walked with Heroes 23
of these sea adventurers who arrived in the Philippines centuries
before Christ was born but she had heard they came from
some island far away off the coast of Asia and that they crossed
the always savage waters of the China Seas in paraos, small hand-
carved boats.
I was impressed by this story. How brave those long-ago rela
tives had been to cross the unknown waters and start a new race
in a strange country!
They were a cultured people, the Malayans, as civilized as
any people living at that period in the world. Some were
weavers of cloth, others skilled in the making of articles of glass
and iron. Many were farmers and planted the rice that would
become the basis of the Philippine economy.
But they were not the first people to occupy our seven
thousand islands, any more than the Pilgrim Fathers were the
first to live in America. Long before the Malayans came and
long before recorded history, so my grandmother told me, the
Negritos who are our Philippine aborigines as the Indians are
those of America came to our islands from someplace, my
grandmother believed, in Asia.
Anthropologists have found Neolithic implements in our is
lands, and the Negritos are believed to be the descendants of
these early citizens of the Stone Age who may have found their
way into the Philippines two million years ago.
Following the Malayan, other cultures filtered into our Is
lands.
Oriental unity is an historic fact. In the eighth or twelfth
century there was the Srivijaya-Vishayan Empire, which is
considered the earliest Malay state of considerable extent. Cen
tered in Sumatra, it embraced Siam, Burma, the southern Penin
sula, Borneo, western Java, Ceylon, the Moluccas, and the
Philippines. This empire gave way in the thirteenth and four
teenth centuries to a greater one, centered in Java, called the
Madjapahit Empire, which, by the end of the fourteenth cen
tury, had extended its influence over the whole territory of
24 I Walked with Heroes
Malaysia, including Sumatra and New Guinea. Both of these
empires at times extended their influence as far north as the
island of Formosa.
At some time during this period a direct tie existed with an
cient India. Our native dialects contain many Sanskrit words,
the beginnings of Aryan infiltration. I understand there are also
traces of Sanskrit in the speech of certain modern American
Indian tribes.
Our authentic records begin in the tenth century, when
Chinese traders, sailing along our coasts, kept business records
of their trading transactions with the Malays, which are still
preserved in China. Records were also kept by Arab and In
dian traders who made voyages to the Philippines about this
time.
But even before this there is evidence of a definite infiltration
of early Christianity!
A strong infusion of Hindu and Javanese blood followed, and
in the fifteenth century Islam was introduced to the Malayans.
There are still many believers in Mohammed in our islands.
The most important of these early centuries, to the Philip
pines and to me, was the sixteenth, for it was at this time, my
grandmother told me, that our own family history began.
My ancestors were members of the civilized Malayan group
found in the island of Mactan by the Spanish explorer Magellan
when he landed there in 1521 carrying the cross. He fought a
duel with swords with Lapulapu, the Malayan chief, and lost,
and is buried on the island.
But before dying Magellan had introduced into the Philip
pines the Spanish blood, culture, and religion that were to play
such a strong part in the future of the Filipino people. And
it was the Spanish who named the Moslems, who had grouped
together mainly on the Island of Mindanao, "the Moros
(Moors)."
The early Spanish brought groups of religious orders from
the Old World. Augustinians, Dominicans, Jesuits, and Fran-
I Walked with Heroes 25
ciscans crossed two oceans to bring the Christian faith to the
many-islanded country discovered by Magellan.
Then, as now, the Filipinos were gentle, friendly, and eager
to learn. Spanish speech infiltrated into the many dialects. Span
ish blood mingled with blood from the Orient. Filipinos be
came proud of their Spanish blood, without relinquishing an
iota of their pride in the Malayan.
My grandmother had no Spanish blood, but she made me
proudly aware of the Spanish blood I had inherited from my
mother s side. And somewhere far back, she told me, Grand
mother had a Chinese ancestor.
Is it a distorted childhood memory that I believe this ancestor
to have been Limahong, the great Chinese adventurer who har
ried our coasts in the sixteenth century and was known as "The
Pirate"?
Piracy is a matter of whose privacy is molested. If Limahong
had been Spanish he would doubtless have been known as "the
Conqueror" and Hispanic history would have revered him.
At any rate, he was the leader of the Chinese adventurers who
in 1574 beached their small ships which had both oars and
sails in Lingayen Gulf (where four centuries later the Fil-
American forces would fight their delaying action against the
Japanese) and attacked the city of Manila, which had been
founded by the Spanish only three years before.
They failed to take the city, but Limahong and his crews of
Chinese Vikings did not return to Cathay. They settled along
the Lingayen Gulf and married into Malayan families, and
among them was perhaps the unknown forefather of my grand
mother. Pirate or no, he was one of my earliest heroes.
By 1 600 the Spanish held nearly all our islands. They had be
come our teachers, our religious instructors, and our conquer
ors. Some were our ancestors.
Meantime, in this same sixteenth century, a great deal more
was happening. The Island of Luzon had been Christianized,
whereupon groups of Moslems from the island of Mindanao
2 6 I Walked with Heroes
turned to piracy and made flying raids on our island. They were
making surprise attacks on Manila as late as 1837.
Civilization brought the Philippines enemies from every side.
Portugal was challenging Spain s hold on the archipelago. Eng
land realized a rich prize had escaped her hands. Sir Francis
Drake and Thomas Cavendish heroes in England, pirates to
us prowled and attacked our coastal towns, causing reproving
shakes of the royal crown in Madrid. In 1762 a British expedi
tion made a sneak attack on Manila and captured it.
"Did they keep it?" I asked, worried, for my childish sym
pathies were far more Spanish than British even though my
father had only recently been involved in our revolt against
Spain.
But my grandmother told me, no, Manila had been returned
to Spain within two years following the terms of the Treaty
of Paris.
And after that, she told me, in her beautiful, musical Panga-
sinan, there had been peace in the Philippines until the very end
of the nineteenth century, when the Americans came.
That was where I came in. I knew about the Americans and
my father s part in the fight against them. In the Spanish prayers
taught me by my grandmother I had prayed that his life be
spared and the hated Americans driven out of Camiling.
That was the only unwelcome chapter in the dramatic story
of my country as told me by my grandmother, as I, only half-
listening, half-remembering, realized the history of our country
was also in a way the story of myself.
What a curious pattern was my ancestry in that foggy past.
Later I would try to untangle the many races and rovings, the
ambitions and explorations and greed and wars, the cultures and
the religions that had merged in one small boy in the Luzon
hinterlands. In my veins was the blood of the dedicated and the
venturesome, the pious and those borne to these islands by
greed. Malayan and Spanish, Aryan and Oriental, and far back
I Walked with Heroes 27
and my secret favorite that swashbuckling Chinese pirate.
When I learned to study maps I would look from the Philip
pines to east and west, south and north, and know the world had
swept in from all sides to merge in the Philippines. We were the
meeting place, the melting pot of the nations, the bridge upon
which rested the four corners of that world.
It was lodged early in my childish mind that the Philippines
stood in the exact center of the world, and the thought placed a
strange burden on me. I was a Filipino heir to a multicolored,
glowing past. The memory of that background must never be
permitted to tarnish. A Filipino was in a position of trust. He
had to hold his head high and always show his best side to the
world.
Somehow my grandmother drummed that point of view into
my wondering mind. She made me aware of my value, not as
her grandson and the child of my parents, but as a Filipino, the
last word in a tremendous saga. The long adventuring and striv
ing must not be wasted.
So along with my daily prayer that my country be set free I
asked to be worthy of my country and its heroes.
It was somewhere in this early stage of my life that I learned
that this respect for the Filipino per se was not shared by all
people. I don t know how I found that out, but I have a long
adhesive memory. As I grew older I found I could memorize
an entire chapter after one reading, and I often reported com
plete speeches without jotting down a note. In fact, that talent
was to have a share in shaping my life. I also seem to be able to
reach further back into memory than the average person, for
much that I am recalling now took place before I was three.
I remember, as distinctly as if I were that child again, lying in
my bed at night and hearing the creak of the kitchen door and
my mother and father whispering together. Then I knew my
anonymous soldier-father had crept into his home again after
days spent fighting the American soldiers in our hills.
28 I Walked with Heroes
My hearing was as acute as my memory. My parents never
knew how much I learned from their whisperings.
I learned to fear for my father s life and the presence of his
enemies. I learned who they were. They were the "bad men/
the American soldiers who were bivouacked in the Plaza, not
four blocks away from our home.
I hated those blue-eyed foreign devils, with a child s helpless
hatred.
I would hear my father s final whisper to my mother, "Don t
let the boys go near the Plaza."
So of course I had to go there.
As one probes an aching tooth, so I found myself drawn to
the little park where the enemy sat around their camp-fires,
cleaning the guns that might any day take my father s life from
us; cooking, eating, joking, singing, as if they were men and not
monsters. They sang sad lonely songs for their homeland, and
although I did not know the meaning of the words their sadness
almost melted my heart. "Farewell, my Bluebell," was one, I
found out much later, and "Just Before the Battle, Mother."
They seemed as unhappy at finding themselves strangers in
a strange land as we were at having them here.
But they had other, hateful songs, and while I could not un
derstand these either I knew they were tuneful insults to my
people. Some of these intruders in our country were quite ob
viously looking down on the Filipinos as members of an inferior
race.
It was my first suspicion of race hatred and I found it difficult
to bear. How dared these crude, rough-speaking strangers look
down on us!
I would return to a household gentled by centuries of civil
ized living, and curl up in a comfortable chair to puzzle my way
through this mystery. I reached the conclusion that these Amer
icans, who represented the America I hated, dared look down
on my parents and their good, sober, industrious neighbors, and
label them outlaws, simply because we were not free.
I Walked with Heroes 29
Because the Philippines was not a free country children were
taught to smuggle food and ammunition to their fathers hiding
in the woods; wives met their husbands under cover of darkness,
good men hid in the hills and crept home by stealth, like guilty
animals; and women stood by their doors in icy contempt while
American soldiers violated the privacy of their homes searching
for men and guns.
All this because we were not free.
Then, as I have told on other occasions, two terrible events
happened in rapid succession. I went to the Plaza one morning
and found the body of our neighbor Clemente hanging on the
gallows the Americans had built in our little park. He was a
good family man and the father of several of my playmates.
Shortly after I learned from a whispered midnight conversation
between my parents that my good, kind grandfather, the head
of our family, had been captured by American soldiers and
given the "water cure" when he refused to tell where my father
was hiding.
I had no idea what the water cure was, and it was years before
I learned it was a form of torture revived by these twentieth-
century American soldiers from the Spanish Inquisition. Wa
ter was forced into the victim s stomach by means of a funnel or
tube, so that the tortured one sometimes ruptured, often died.
By the time I learned this I also had learned that such acts
in the Philippines were limited to a few sadistic soldiers of
the type that can be found in any army or any neighborhood.
But when I was three I had no such facts to comfort me. I
blamed America and our not being free.
My grandfather came back to us, somehow older and gentler
and saddened, and he did not live very long after that. What
had been done to him was never discussed before the children
and I could not tell anyone that I knew. Since I could not talk
the matter out it festered in my mind and added to the fear I felt
for my father and to my hatred of the Americans.
30 I Walked with Heroes
Why did these horrors serve to draw me back to the Plaza?
Wide-eyed and wondering I watched the soldiers eating and
singing around their campfires, and in my innocence wondered
why God did not strike them dead.
Then, as I have told so many times and as General Mac-
Arthur has related, an American sergeant whose name I never
knew lured a half-dozen small Filipino youngsters to his side.
He gave us the American fruit we had never tasted apples
and read to us from a wonderful little book called Baldwin s
Primer. Did he have small boys at home and was he lonely for
them?
This must have been the truth of it, for he and other soldiers
drew us against our will into their adult military circle. They
knew how small boys love to be treated as men among men.
Soon we were on a comradely basis, and since they could not
speak our language it seemed natural that we should learn theirs.
Our sergeant friend taught us from Baldwin s Primer. "I see
the cat. Do you see the cat? Does the cat see me?" I can see
him now, that blue-eyed, friendly man, relaxed under our nipa
palms with his gun at his side, "on the ready" (in readiness for
our fathers in hiding) , using that simple book to teach a small
circle of big-eyed little boys to read and write in English. I was
very proud of the rapid way I learned, for none of the grownups
I knew, not even my scholarly father, could read or write
English!
I came to trust our enemies, to love them, and knew at last
there was no difference between us, because we were friends.
In this I did not feel disloyal to my father and his cause.
Friendship was a personal matter. It had nothing to do with
war. It had no effect on my hatred for America.
What is the effect of hatred on a child? I had asked questions:
How can men do such terrible things? How can God let them
happen?
Not until I was a grown man would I know the answers and
I Walked with Heroes 31
then I had to find them for myself. I learned all men are good
and all are evil and that serpents lurk in every Eden.
After Clemente was hanged and my grandfather tortured, I
tried to stay away from the Plaza. But my friend the sergeant
beckoned; and tempted, like Eve, by this possessor of apples
and wisdom I forsook the pleasures of hatred and rejoined his
classes in English.
Then, so swiftly and easily I do not recall when it happened,
the sergeant and all the other soldiers were gone, the gallows
was destroyed, and our Plaza was again a peaceful provincial
park. My father was home, and all the other fathers were back
with their families. Life was good and simple and safe again, and
peace was something a small boy could understand.
Now we were under America, and where before our red,
white, and blue Philippine flag had flown there now flew the
American red, white, and blue.
Instead of shiploads of American soldiers there now came
shiploads of American teachers and advisers to instruct us in the
American way.
It seemed to make a great deal of difference that we were
now under American rule instead of being a republic or in the
throes of revolution, but the difference was not perceptible to
a small boy.
The year 1902 saw final surrender, but the Filipino dream of
freedom did not surrender. For the Filipinos had been promised
eventual freedom by America, so all would be well.
My father was a leader of popular opinion in our town. He
was fair-minded and temperate. He argued that since America
had beaten us and then made its generous promise, the only
honorable attitude for the Filipinos to take was to cooperate
fully. He was among the last in our town to surrender and to
take the oath of allegiance to the United States. But he was the
first man in Camiling to learn English. In time he became a
teacher of English. He made friends with the American school
teachers who came to our country and one of them, an Ameri-
32 I Walked with Heroes
can major, became such a close friend that he came to live with
us in our home and was a sort of extra uncle to us children.
My father began the study of civic welfare that was ulti
mately to lead him into a political career. He studied the Ameri
can form of government and became a leader in the fair govern
ment campaigns. He sought to see the good in all that the
Americans were doing to help advance the Filipinos new
schools, better roads, medical and hygienic care. He praised
these works and pointed out their advantages to his own people.
He became the advocate in our province for the American way.
So enthusiastic was he for the new methods and so far-reach
ing was his publicizing of democracy that it was not long before
Filipinos and Americans alike were urging him to run for of
fice. He was elected municipal councilor, later municipal pres
ident (mayor), and eventually governor of our province of
Tarlac.
When queried as to the reason for his change of heart the
former revolutionary had his answer ready. It was based upon
a promise he could recite by heart, as I would learn to recite it
in my turn America s promise as voiced by President William
McKinley on April 7, 1900, when he instructed the Taft Com
mission:
... to bear in mind that the government which they are estab
lishing is designed not for our [the American] satisfaction nor for
the expression of our theoretical views, but for the happiness,
peace and prosperity of the people of the Philippine Islands.
On these words my father raised his children in loyalty and
respect for America.
My father was close and dear to me. But even he did not .
know the small rebel who surrendered at the same time that
the adult turned his gun over to America and took the oath of
allegiance. Until then I had been adamant in my hatred, not
against the American soldiers who had become my friends but
against the vague impersonal concept of contempt and power
I Walked with Heroes 33
over the helpless that they represented. But when my father
yielded, something in the child gave way.
I learned then to bow with dignity to the storm so that my
head might lift again.
For despite defeat my father s head was still high. By his
willingness to see the merits in and cooperate with the new form
of government he was developing into a leader who in the long
run would guide his fellow patriots back to freedom. My father
believed in the healing qualities of time. He explained to us
that even America had not always been free. But we would be
free, in time, and due to this American interlude the new Philip
pines would be further ahead in education and economic devel
opment than ever before in its history. Above all, we would
be permanently and irrevocably free.
My father did not live to see his faith come to fruition, but
in his serene heart he knew it was to be.
Now, when all over the world so many small countries are
struggling to hold their heads high under the yoke, let them
remember how it was with us and how long we waited. And
how, while we waited, our leaders died Rizal, Bonifacio,
Luna, Mabini, Quezon without ever knowing their country
is at last free.
Yet they led us to freedom. And they were not alone. We
had other Filipino heroes, unknown beyond our islands, but
we know them. The fathers of those among us who were
children in 1900 fought for liberty and some died for it; they
also are our heroes. My father fought on the losing side but
he is no less heroic in my eyes.
Our revolution is long since over, and Camiling is as peace
ful a town as it was in my boyhood, but I have not forgotten
the crackle of gunfire in our hills and the body of our neighbor
hanging in our Plaza. Clemente s death is part of a remembered
nightmare and his name belongs in the ranks of the unknown
heroes who died for our freedom.
All through these infantile years of mine, which were also
34 I Walked with Heroes
the years of revolution, I had contrived to live outwardly the
life of an innocent, active little boy. Anyone looking at the
smiling, mischievous child I was then would have thought me
without a care in the world. No adult could have guessed how
deeply my emotions ran. Before I was five I had known the
depths of human hatred and an equally passionate love for
what I thought was right.
It had been simple in the beginning. My father s side was
right. That made all the Filipinos good men and all the Ameri
cans bad. Morality was as simple to a small Filipino trapped in
wartime as it is to the modern child watching a TV struggle
between cowboys and Indians. The chubby-cheeked Carlos,
who teased his grandmother by running away from lessons,
was outwardly the child; inwardly an adult man seethed with
longings for vengeance.
Now our enemies were our friends. Now the men I had
dreamed of lolling were guests at our dinner table; their chil
dren played with us. The helpless hatred of childhood had to
die. But the passion born of the longing to be free did not die.
Gradually I learned that freedom must be not only for Ameri
cans or for Filipinos. Freedom must be for all men in all coun
tries before any man can be truly free.
So the righteous indignation I had known did not subside.
It would remain part of me and hurl me into the fight for
democracy wherever that need would arise. It grew as I grew,
as I learned what the fighting in the hills around Camiling had
been for and how the longing for freedom had grown in the
Filipino heart until it would not be denied. ... As it was to
grow in my own heart and lead me in time to Bataan and Cor-
regidor and eventually to the widest of all battlefields the
floor of the United Nations.
What does freedom mean to a child?
In my mind it was exemplified by our Philippine flag, perhaps
because for so many years that flag was contraband. America,
I Walked with Heroes 35
when it took over the Philippines, decreed our flag was not to
be flown in any public place. My father was amenable to all
American rulings since he had taken the oath of allegiance, and
he kept it in every way except in the matter of the flag.
Despite the new law he displayed a large Filipino flag on the
wall of his bedroom where he could see it first on waking and
last at night. A similar flag was under the glass top of his desk
in the library.
If the Americans wanted to snoop and confiscate his flags, he
told us, let them try! The refusal to permit Filipinos to display
their flag made him so angry that for a time he was tempted
to withdraw his oath. But instead, he helped in an unremitting
campaign for the righting of this injustice, which may seem
minor to the conquerors but is not a small matter to the con
quered.
My father explained to his family that in displaying the Fili
pino flag in his own home he was obeying the American ruling
to the letter.
"The American law says we cannot display our flag in any
public place, " he told us. "Well, my bedroom is not a public
place. It is personal and private. I am displaying my flag in
complete privacy, and I shall keep it there until I can hang it
in public where it belongs."
It makes me happy to remember he helped to win this fight
that was of such importance to the Filipinos, although it was a
long time in the winning. Not until 1916 were we allowed to
display our own flag again in our own country. I am glad my
father lived to hang our flag once more before the door. He
who had taken part in so many battles for freedom was proud
of this seemingly unimportant but so telling a victory.
American guests in our home in Camiling noted my father s
flouting of the law, and had only kindly understanding for their
defeated friend who chose to make this secret stand beside his
beloved flag.
36 I Walked with Heroes
To him it symbolized our country s hope of freedom. To
the Americans it must have symbolized all that was best in my
father and his fellow Filipinos their undying faith in that
shared ideal.
Three
SO PEACE returned to Camiling, and in its restored pastoral
innocence I grew into boyhood. The years of war passed
through my childish memories like a witch story told to chil
dren. Our home and family circle had remained fixed as the
stars. Camiling was the center of the world; our elders and God
had the world in their keeping, so how could events turn out
other than right?
The world might shake with nightmare, but I was safe.
I would remember this in later years when I prayed for the
safety of my own children. They in their turn did not escape
the Moloch of war. They were homeless behind enemy lines
where I could not protect them. I do not think the experience
did them lasting harm. Indeed, it gave them wisdom and under
standing beyond their years. It robbed them of what should
have been the light-hearted period of their lives, but they kept
their courage.
I believe that was because their mother was with them and
gave them the calm assurance that all would be well, as my
mother had given to her children when we were trapped in a
country ravaged by war.
Now I pray for the safety of my grandchildren and for all
this world s children that war will not strike again.
In my own childhood, war, once over, left an elysian peace.
Ours was a happy land. We were a happy people. No child of
today can have that sense of the word being wide beyond all
imagining and filled on every side with peace and good will
toward men. In faraway countries dignified kings and queens
37
3 8 I Walked with Heroes
sat securely on their thrones, and with America aiding us and
ourselves part of America we had no one to dread.
So I grew into boyhood, a smug, self-centered, generous-
and-selfish-by-turns, complete little being, a thoroughly happy
child. I will not say there were no storms or sulking rages; I was
only too human. But the world was large and safe and very
beautiful and I was still its exact center.
Any problems I might have at this time would be of my own
making. And I made them, for I was healthy, inquisitive, active,
and overly fond of conversation. I knew everyone and every
thing in Camiling, and discussed all with unrestrained freedom.
I seemed to be everywhere at once. I talked with all I met. I told
all I knew.
My parents were tolerant and wise. They never spanked me,
but they let me know that social errors on my part let my
entire family down, if not my country. Americans were with
us, American eyes were upon us, and I had to live up to our
standards as a Filipino. Filipinos as a race were always cour
teous, gentle of speech, and friendly, and I was expected to dis
play these characteristics.
But I was insatiably curious. I asked questions of children
and grownups. I had opinions and aired them. The gift of
speech that was to be my support and my salvation was fully
developed when I was still very young.
I have often wished my grandfather were living and that I
might tell him that his little grandson Carlos resides in America
and is paid one thousand dollars every time he steps upon a
lecture platform! I wonder what he would say if he knew
that the Americans he and my father fought against have come
by the hundreds of thousands and paid in good American
money to hear his chatterbox of a grandson.
I can hear him now, that gentle patriarch, at the head of the
dinner table, groaning, "Please, Carlitos, can you not be quiet?"
My father also tried to curb me. He admonished me in Span-
I Walked with Heroes 39
ish proverbs. "Still waters run deepest," he would say, and,
"Remember, a closed mouth catches no flies."
Nothing could cure my jabbering.
In those days children were not supposed to enter into adult
conversations as they do now. But I was interested in every
subject being discussed, and I could not let any opinion go by
with which I did not agree.
My family groaned, but they heard me out, down to the
littlest member. My mother listened in silence, turning her
shining head from one to the other as we spoke. She seldom
joined in our arguments, but her attention was flattering. My
grandmother shook her head or nodded in agreement.
But my father listened with apparent respect, and he would
argue against my impassioned replies. Since he was older and
wiser he always outpointed me.
Then I would give up, saying darkly, "Well, you have won
this argument, but there is always tomorrow."
The tomorrows went by very fast. They brought me to the
America my father and grandfather had protested against, but
where Americans now were willing to listen to a small man
from a small country.
My having been permitted to express myself as a child has
been of inestimable value. It gave me the courage to believe in
my own opinions. Later I would hone my skill in argument on
debating teams; it would serve me in politics and in the United
Nations. I had ideas I thought were important, which must be
expressed. I had learned to communicate my ideas when I was
a child in the receptive circle of my family.
I am still trying to communicate the thoughts that seem im
portant to me. Therefore I write and make speeches wherever
and whenever I am asked. I never allow any opportunity to
pass for publicizing my country and my people.
The ability to express our thoughts has raised us above the
animals. To this date in human history it is the weapon, not too
effective, which holds us to an unsteady peace.
40 I Walked with Heroes
So it was that when in 1 946 1 ran second to Eleanor Roosevelt
on the popularity roster of the W. Colston Leigh Lecture Bu
reau I would find myself smiling at the memory of Grand
father s pained remonstrances at my constant chattering.
It is one of my last memories of my grandfather. He died
soon after our revolt against America ended. I was still so young
that, while I have distinct memories of him living, I do not
remember his death.
In fact my memories are singularly free of unhappiness in
any form, once our revolution ended.
Poverty was all around us, but it was not visible to my young
eyes. Values are comparative; the modern Russian thinks of the
way his ancestors lived under the czars and believes he is fortu
nate. In Camiling there was none of the poverty I would see
when I was campaigning many years later in the Philippine
hinterlands and visited in the homes of f amilies who could af
ford but one meal a day.
In my boyhood I was surrounded by cleanly, smiling neigh
bors, who enjoyed life in a tropical climate where fruit and
fish were abundant and free.
In New York and other cities the tenement and the luxury
hotel are side by side. So it was in Camiling, where the nipa hut
stood by the landowner s casa. No matter what the size of the
house each had its own well, and the clotheslines out-of-doors
were always hung with newly washed clothing smelling
sweetly of sun and air.
There were many nipa huts in our barrio (precinct), Cabi-
ganan. The children who lived in them were our playfellows
then and are our friends today. They are always the first to
greet me when I return to Camiling. Some of their families
were quite poor, but we children knew nothing of poverty.
What is shoelessness to a small boy whose toes thirst for the
warm dust?
Some of our neighbors were our tenants. My family owned
the land on which their houses stood. Evidently this did not
I Walked with Heroes 41
interfere with our popularity, for when my father ran for gov
ernor our barrio voted for him one hundred per cent.
Many of my boyhood companions from the barrio have risen
to positions of high authority. Several became political leaders.
Among these was my neighbor and early grammar school com
panion, Paulino Santos. He was a poor boy with a brilliant
mind, who won his cadetship in the Military Academy of the
Philippines by competition and who later became head of the
Philippine army. He was killed by the Japanese during the war.
His granddaughter, Milagros, is now my code clerk in Wash
ington.
These boys and I did what small boys were doing all over the
world. We played marbles and baseball, stick ball and leap frog,
climbed trdes, stole fruit from the orchards and were chased by
the farmers in what we considered hair s-breadth escapes, and
crawled through the dark damp culvert that ran under our
street with all the thrill of Tom Sawyer exploring his cave.
Rich or poor meant little in our lives. We dressed more or less
alike in that tropical climate, as lightly as possible. We were
clean because that is part of Filipino tradition, at least we were
clean when we left our homes.
We were not entirely aware of the advantages of money,
because we saw little of it. I imagine we were all fairly even as
far as cash was concerned. My father, with a large family to
provide for, was a thrifty man, and he saw no reason why a
small boy should have money while he was well clothed and
fed. My grandmother was more lenient, and she started me on
a weekly allowance of five centavos.
With these large copper pennies clutched in my fist I was the
first cash customer of the day at the saba (fried or boiled ba
nana) stand. Saba is a popular dish in the Philippines both as a
food staple and as a delicacy. Even though we always had plenty
of freshly cooked bananas in our house my entire weekly in
come was spent on this delicacy, which tasted so much better
away from home and out-of-doors.
42 I Walked with Heroes
There was no ice cream in Camiling when I was a child. Our
favorite special treat was gulaman, a frozen concoction of
shredded coconut, sugar, and gelatine.
Well do I remember my first sight of that remarkable mod
ern invention, the ice cream freezer. One of my uncles had
brought it from Manila to make ice cream for the church fair.
It was a round, tublike affair with an inside container that
turned with a crank. When I saw it first it was sitting on the
steps of the church in the plaza, surrounded by everyone in
Camiling who had gathered to marvel at the new contraption.
There was never any difficulty getting boys to turn that freezer
handle.
My father was so impressed with the invention that he
bought one for our family, and after that we had ice cream
twice a month, which was as often as the ice cart came to
Camiling. There was no train then, so the great blocks of ice
came lumbering over the dusty road in one of the great wooden
wheeled carts drawn by carabaos. The ice chunks were packed
in burlap and sawdust to protect them from the sun, but just
the same they always arrived melted to half their original size.
We boys vied for the position of crank turner. That was a
place of decided advantage, for the churning cream often
swelled up and lifted the lid of the inner churn and small fingers
could scoop up the delectable overflow. Sometimes the taste of
rock salt went with the cream but we didn t mind.
I have never lost my love for ice cream, but the thrilling
taste of that we made ourselves in the old wooden freezer has
never been equaled, and I have indulged in my favorite dessert
in all the leading restaurants and ice cream parlors in the world.
It was the first thing I asked for after my escape from Bataan.
But that ice cream of Camiling boyhood was in the taste of
it, a flavor never to be found again.
So much happiness to be remembered! Our "saint s days"
the equivalent of birthdays the feast days and celebrations and
holy days, family anniversaries and weddings, and, far apart,
I Walked with Heroes 43
even the hushed sanctity of family funerals that held so much
of beautiful ritual and love. Above all a child looked forward
to Christmas, to the visit of the Three Kings and the gifts and
feasting and parties, to the songs of early morning Mass, and
to midnight Mass on Christmas Eve in the old church, made
mystical by the glow of candles and fragrance of incense, the
soft voices of the priests, and the sense of being safe with all
one s family in the presence of God. And stumbling home later
under the midnight stars, half -asleep and clinging to my father s
hand, the ecstasy of the moment when, laughing at my weary
plight, he would stoop down and scoop me up into his strong
arms and carry me home. Then, drowsiness forgotten, came
the j oy of sitting at the table for the feast of Noel the midnight
Christmas meal and the lechon and relleno a small member of
a family group blessed by God.
I entered the primary grade in the brick schoolhouse on the
Plaza with no obvious show of reluctance. I did not mind going
to a real school as I had minded attending my grandmother s
classes. This meant I was starting to grow up. Also, I was not
alone; many of my young playmates from the barrio entered
with me.
My mother recognized this move toward man s estate on my
part and took over the responsibility of my allowance, increas
ing it to two centavos a day. These were spent promptly at
recess for fried bananas, with no nonsense about waiting for
lunchtime.
I had rebelled at my grandmother s tutoring because I had
been the sole victim and because play had seemed more interest
ing in those budding years than learning my ABC s. Now I saw
the advantage of that preschool training. I had a precocious
knowledge of the rudiments of three languages the Spanish
reading and writing taught me by my grandmother, the English
learned from my sergeant friend in the Plaza, and our own dia
lect, Pangasinan.
44 I Walked with Heroes
I went to the head of the class in all subjects dealing with
language, and stayed there.
But I drew an absolute blank in anything pertaining to
mathematics.
Many of my playmates from the barrio, now my classmates,
were very bright in school. Several showed particular genius
for mathematics, in which I showed a definite early talent for
being abysmally poor. They could not understand why I, who
did so well in every other course, was always low in math.
My first grammar school teacher was Mr. Leo J. Grove of
Ovid, Michigan. He and his wife were two of the American
teachers who had come among the "one thousand teachers" sent
by the American government to bring modern education to the
Philippines. He made a minor crusade of trying to teach me
the multiplication table. He would poke my skinny chest with
what seemed an enormous forefinger. "How much is two times
two? Three times three? Four times four?"
And I simply could not remember. I was a scared little boy
and he seemed awfully big to me.
My schoolmates were sympathetic. "Why don t you study?"
they would ask.
And I became obstinate. "Why should I? Why do I have
to learn math?"
"So you can keep your own accounts when you re a man
and not be cheated," one boy explained.
"When I am a man," I countered, "I ll hire an accountant!"
And the truth is that I never was any good at mathematics,,
and I do have an accountant now who keeps track of my finan
cial affairs.
My school friends gave up scolding and began coaching me.
That helped, and in turn I helped them with their English. It
was my first try at teaching.
In time I would regret my neglect of the science of numbers.,
I know now that the study of mathematics provides good men
tal discipline and I would have profited by it in many ways.
I Walked with Heroes 45
Curiously, by* the time we came to study geometry I found I
liked that subject and did well in it. But then geometry was
logic, it required reasoning, and stimulated my mind.
From the beginning, school opened to their widest the yawn
ing ducts of my insatiable curiosity. I wanted to know all there
was to be known. That this ambition was to fall short of the
mark was no fault of the wonderful American teachers, who
had come to our Islands to help the Filipinos get started in the
ways of democracy. They were more than teachers; they were
missionaries and personal friends.
These builders of democracy in the Far East the American
men and women who gave modern education and the tenets of
democracy to the Philippines have gone unrecorded and for
the most part forgotten, but their influence was as far-reaching
as it has been abiding.
I have written of them many times, but never been able to
say enough. The educator is always the secret leader of the
future. How many, I wonder, know how important they are?
I knew. During the first years I spent in the Camiling gram
mar school I found out what I wanted to be. I, too, would be
a teacher.
These emissaries from the f ar-off world of America were my
family s friends, and the friends of my people and country. In
every way they showed their respect for the Philippines,
present and past. They taught us, in English, Philippine and
American history together, so that we could see how close-
knit were our ideals and dreams.
They helped develop a love of country in a generation of
growing Filipinos. They taught us to regard the American way
of life as our own.
Under their kindly guidance all my childish hatred of Amer
ica was forgotten. These teachers were America to me and
they became my heroes.
Now when America is being tested and the eyes of the world
are upon her, she might do well to remember those pioneer
46 I Walked with Heroes
teachers who came to us in the Philippines at the start of this
century and drove into the minds and hearts of the children
there the belief that all men are brothers under the canopy of
heaven. They proved their belief in their teachings by showing
respect for the Filipinos and for Philippine customs and tra
ditions. There was no looking down, no superiority shown.
They knew the inner story of the Filipino struggle for freedom
and taught it to us just as it happened, comparing it in every
way with America s own struggle, so that we felt allied to those
heroes to America whose pictures looked down on us from
our classroom walls Washington, La Fayette, Jefferson.
These early leaders of democracy, and Abraham Lincoln,
who was secretly my favorite, became very real to me.
How could they help but be real, when beside their pictures
in our classrooms hung those of our own heroes Rizal, Agui-
naldo, Mabini, Bonifacio, Marcelo H. del Pilar, and Luna?
These men from two worlds were allies of the free world.
They were my supermen; my life would be built upon them.
A child has many fathers: his own and those men living or
dead who capture his imagination. My first heroes were my
father, grandfather, and uncles, because they had been fighters
in a just cause. Now, from our American teachers, I learned
more of the great Filipinos who had helped advance Philippine
history. My grandmother had told me of them, and now I
thrilled anew. To me the greatest of all was Rizal,
I would return home from school and go into the cool, dim
living room where two painted portraits hung. I would stand
beneath them, looking at the strong faces of two of the great
men of the Philippines. My father had known them: his general,
Antonio Luna of the Philippine Army of the Resistance, and
Rizal. I shared my father s respect for them.
Rizal seemed closest to me, for he had almost become my
cousin. Before he became the patriot-martyr, he had been in
love with and engaged to marry a beautiful second cousin of my
mother s, Leonor Rivera. For some reason, perhaps because her
I Walked with Heroes 47
mother wanted for her a more stable life than could be provided
by a revolutionary leader, she was not allowed to choose her
heart s desire. Instead, she was persuaded to marry the English
man Charles Kipping, who had fallen in love with her and
courted her persistently. Their son, Carlos, later married my
older sister, Lourdes.
Leonor Kipping was one of the famed beauties of her genera
tion, and her portrait hung in the Museum of Manila near RizaPs
until the Museum and all it contained were blasted to rubble
by the Japanese.
I would stand a long time looking up at the portrait of Rizal.
He had lived and died for the Philippines. Someday, I deter
mined, I would find a way to be a credit to the Philippines
like Rizal!
What a strange upbringing was mine; as mixed as my coun
try s origins. Certain leaders in modern education would hold
it deficient in intellectual balance. I had my growing collection
of heroes. From my grandmother and the town priest I had
absorbed a firm belief in the saints and their miracles. Also from
my grandmother, servants, and playmates I had collected an
impressive list of fantastic illusions I believed in ghosts, gob
lins, dragons, and other mythical monsters that are rife in
Filipino folklore.
In time I would discard my belief in folklore, but in those
days childhood could be a delightfully scary experience. Nor
can I believe the bogey tales worked lasting harm. Surely it can
be no worse for a child to delight in the slaying of a mythical
monster than to gloat over the multiple slayings on a TV pro
gram.
I regret the modern offerings of gunplay and gangsterism to
children in place of the hero worship we were permitted. A
child longs for an ideal, the enlarged vision of self upon which
he can build the adult image. The ambitions I have cherished
and the good I may have done were in emulation of men who
were my heroes and are my heroes still.
48 I Walked with Heroes
One of the wonderful gifts from our American teachers was
that they did not rob Filipino children of their Philippine heroes,
and, in addition, they shared their own with us. In practical
ways a child could understand they made the American dream
seem worth-while.
In America, so we were told and believed, all men knew our
Lord had created each of us in His image regardless of color,
and that the divine spark that burns in me burns also in you.
Our teachers made us see the truth in that pattern when they
sought the divine spark in the poorest of their pupils, nurtured
it with their encouragement, and rejoiced when they saw that
genius burst into flame.
In America, we were told, welcome was given to other coun
tries "y our tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to
breathe free," who had left persecution behind them in old,
benighted places to live as free Americans.
We knew this was true when our American teachers visited
our homes and invited us to theirs, when they showed their
liking for our parents and their children played with us.
So we who were children as the century began came to be
lieve in America as our religion told us to believe in heaven. It
was the land of hope and freedom, where justice was the rule
and not the exception, where all were polite to one another
because all were equal, and all men walked as kings.
Yes, I thought, dreaming over my schoolbooks, lying deep
in warm grass on the banks of the river, scuffling through the
dust to and from school, someday I shall see this America where
I will be equal to all!
And like so many others who have dreamed, I would in time
see America and learn that all men do not stand there as
brothers under the canopy of heaven, and that while all may be
equal in God s eyes they are not so in the view of the prejudiced.
This is America s greatest weakness, her Achilles heel.
The racial problem is one she must attack within herself,
I Walked with Heroes 49
because it was America who first taught the world to believe
that all men are created equal.
Our teachers, Mr. and Mrs. Grove, were frequent guests in
our home. While Mr. Grove seemed relaxed and amiable there,
I could not lose my dread of him, because he represented the
mathematics I could not master in school.
But Mrs. Grove was my first English teacher in the Camiling
grammar school, and to me she represented the magic world of
books. It was due to her skill as a teacher that much of that
magic rubbed off on me. I was a shining star in her class, and
one of the dullest in her husband s.
She was quick to recognize my love of words and helped my
interest along. She introduced fields of reading I might never
have known but for her. Years after I had left school and much
I had learned was forgotten I remembered the Groves, and I
even remembered the American town from which they came
Ovid, Michigan.
I thought a great deal about them after I escaped from Bataan
and came to America. I wrote a letter to them addressed to Ovid
but it was returned, address unknown.
Then, in this same year 1942, the Pulitzer prize was given me
at Columbia University, and in my speech of acceptance I said
that the real winner of the prize was my first English teacher,
Hattie Grove, who had taught a small Filipino pupil to value
the beauty of the English language.
The speech was publicized rather widely and I hoped it
would flush the Groves out of hiding wherever they were, but
still no answer came.
Then, a few years ago, my speaking engagements included
one at Miami. Just as I was about to leave for Florida a letter
came from Delray Beach in that state. It was from Hattie
Grove. She wrote that she and Mr. Grove had retired and he
was in a wheelchair.
I telephoned ahead to the Miami committee, and as soon as
I arrived a car was waiting to take me to Delray. I brought the
50 I Walked with Heroes
Groves back to Miami, where that night at the dinner at which
I was to speak they were guests of honor.
We sat at the head of the table and there was a great deal to
be said before the speeches began. We had not met since, I
believe, 191 2, in the Camiling grammar school.
"Why did you not get in touch with me? " I demanded, when
I learned they had followed my career and saved every clip
ping concerning me.
They explained they had not wanted to bother me. "But
we are so proud of you and of all you have done," they kept
saying.
It was an emotional reunion. When I rose to speak I repeated
what I had said the day I had accepted the Pulitzer prize, that
Mrs. Grove, not I, was the true winner of the honor. The
audience gave her a standing ovation and she was in tears. But
she got up on her feet like a champion and made a wonderful
little speech.
She wound up saying, "I am eighty-two years old and this
is the happiest moment of my life! "
Her husband how had I ever thought of him as formi
dable leaned over to me with a twinkle in his eye. "She s a
liar," he whispered gaily. "She s eighty-five!"
Mrs. Grove had brought a gift for me, her collection of all
the clippings about me she had saved after my escape from
Bataan. I took them, had them bound into a scrapbook, and
sent it to her with my love.
My widening world of books did not end in Mrs. Grove s
classroom. My father was a great reader and he liked to be read
to. One end of our upper balcony was enclosed as my father s
library and it was completely lined with books. Here he took
his rest during siesta hour, lying on a sofa with his eyes closed
while I read aloud to him. Many of the books were gifts from
his American schoolteacher friends.
My own favorite was a set written for children, Fifty Stories
I Walked with Heroes 51
of Fifty Great Americans, which had been given him because
he was the first person in our town to learn English. These books
fed my hero worship and my passionate interest in America.
Our readings were in Spanish and English, and my father
corrected my pronunciation and my delivery in both languages.
He subscribed to the leading American magazines, so that we
had in our home. The Youth s Companion, the Ladies Home
Journal, Harper s, and another magazine which I believe was
called The Independent. Their accounts of American cities
made Camiling seem a tame place. I devoured accounts of tall
cities and of highways crisscrossing a continent. Every person
I read about was rich or famous, and although all were privi
leged all were equal.
We also enjoyed our Filipino publications. My father s
favorite was the El Renacimiento (Renaissance), a newspaper
printed in Spanish in Manila. My father loved poetry and read it
beautifully, and corrected me gently as I read. So I was in
troduced to the poetry, written in Spanish, of our country s
great lyricists Fernando Maria Guerrero, Flavio Zaragoza,
Manuel Bernabe, Cecilio Apostol, Jesus Balmori, and Claro
M. Recto.
Guerrero, Bernabe, Recto, Balmori, and Apostol were my
favorites. I memorized their poems and asked my father ques
tions about them. I learned Recto was a political leader as well
as poet. He was to play a great role in our development. As one
of the country s distinguished jurists he presided over the con
vention that drafted the Philippine constitution. He was in turn
a member of the Philippine Supreme Court and of the Philip
pine Senate. He is our greatest dialectician.
Age differences tighten as one grows older, and the young
poet whose words in "Bajo Los Cocoteros" I memorized was
later to become my friend, although we had many differences
of opinion on national questions. He was to serve Japan in the
puppet administration during the war, and be exonerated on the
52 I Walked with Heroes
ground that he bent the knee to Nippon only to enable him to
give continued aid and protection to our fellow Filipinos.
Young as I was, I was gaining a smattering of politics. The
newspaper articles I read aloud to my father raised questions in
my mind which he was delighted to answer. Then, when I was
about eight, a personal interest showed me how fascinating
politics could be.
My father was never what could be called a professional
politician. He was an intellectual, and his studies of American
democracy, new in his country, led him into a local campaign
for good government. At this point the step from teaching to
politics was inevitable.
He served first as Camiling s municipal councilor, then as its
mayor.
The campaign when he ran for councilor changed family life
for the Romulos. I learned then what happens to personal pri
vacy when a member of a family enters politics. Our home was
no longer a private dwelling. It was like a church, in that its
doors might never be closed. Night and day people came and
went. The rooms were always crowded. New arrivals were for
ever at our door. No matter what the hour all who came must
be offered some form of refreshment.
We never sat down to dine as a family any more. There were
no more intimate teasing family conversations, no family jokes.
Everything we said was overheard. We children learned to be
careful of expressing our opinions, and for a time my exuber
ance of speech was drastically curbed. There was also a tem
porary interruption of the siesta hours and the reading.
All our lives were changed by this upheaval. Perhaps my
mother s serene existence was most disturbed, but one would
never know that from her calm demeanor. She made the
switch from domestic privacy to public turbulence as easily as
she had maintained her calm the day our roof caught on fire. My
wife would display the same serenity when in turn I answered
the siren call of politics. Both women were home-oriented, hap-
I Walked with Heroes 53
piest in the smaller circle of family and friends. I do not think
either would have chosen this public mode of living.
My mother had led a busy life, commanding her own family
domain. Now for my father s sake she widened the circle and
accepted the new order. She threw open her doors and re
organized her household, until she was running a day-and-night
catering service, ready to serve all who appeared.
My father came and went, always in a hurry, always off to
make a speech somewhere or meet with his campaign managers.
I longed to hear some of his speeches, but I was in school and
could not. Yet I was certain they were like himself blunt and
honest and sound.
I was equally certain he was going to win.
That inner assurance, the certainty of victory, was something
I was to experience many times. I was also to know the certainty
of defeat, but never without feeling its injustice. I had in my
make up the assurance of the victor, inculcated there by a father
who would do his best to win, and who did win against a power
ful opponent. Later he ran for reelection, and won again.
All this was heady fare for an eight-year-old boy.
A man in public life can have no secret life, no hiding place.
Even now, when I am in bed in my room the telephone by my
pillow can summon me from sleep and a secretary s voice relay
to me a problem that cannot wait until morning.
After my father became mayor the telephone in our house
rang at all hours.
For that remarkable innovation, the telephone, came also
with his new position. I had never before seen one. Until my
father s election there were only two in Camiling: one in the
presidencia (City Hall) and the other in the post office. Anyone
having business apart from Camiling would go to one of these
public buildings. There were no secret conversations in our
town.
Now that my father was mayor, he had the use of the phone
54 I Walked with Heroes
in the presidencia, and he was also given one in our home. Like
the others ours was a wall phone that summoned the operator
with a crank, and its installation was a seven-day wonder. We
children were not allowed to touch it, but we could bring our
friends in and point to it with understandable pride.
Its performance was not always one hundred per cent perfect.
Telephone poles in those days were tall shoots of bamboo and
far from strong. When the heavy rains came or when we boys
were flying our kites and got the tail strings entangled in the
wires conversation suffered a setback in Camiling.
My father tried to take his new office and its duties with
calm, but he liked being mayor. As I said earlier, he was seldom
able to hide his emotions. It was about this time I saw him furi
ously angry for the first time.
He had organized a wild boar hunt with his friend the Amer
ican major and took me along on condition I keep behind the
men and out of the way of the guns. I obeyed, but somehow the
major got in the rear, and when a boar started up in a bamboo
thicket he fired. I heard the bullet whine close to my head. I
never again saw my father so angry.
As a rule he was sweet-tempered and tolerant of other peo
ple s errors. No matter how nonsensical my behavior he never
ridiculed me. He would correct me with an eyebrow whim
sically lifted and a few sarcastic but not hurtful words. He
offered no criticism when about this time I confided to him I
had given up my ambition to be a teacher; I had instead decided
to become the greatest acrobat in the world. That was when I
was nine, and the first circus I had ever seen came to Camiling.
In those days a circus held a parade before giving a perform
ance. The band was headed by a small boy holding a placard
advertising the attractions of the show. For this service he
would be passed free into the tent.
The opening day parade was held, and I was the small boy.
My reward was munificent. I received not only my own
I Walked with Heroes 55
promised pass for opening night, but an extra pass that I might
"take a friend." I took my brother Henry.
Did anyone else in that vast tent enjoy the performance as
much as I? Fm certain Henry did not. For on the following day
I suggested that Henry also apply for a card to be carried in the
parade that we might both get passes for the second night.
"Who, me?" snorted Henry. "I ve seen the show!"
So had I, but a gargantuan appetite for circuses had merely
been whetted. The circus played a week in our town, and each
day I carried the placard in the parade, and each evening I was
in a front seat staring upward, lost in dreams.
I had never known human beings could attain such mastery
of flight as those glittering creatures on the high trapeze. I knew
now what I had to be.
I rigged up a trapeze in our tallest tamarind and for days prac
ticed swinging and twisting high in the air. I beguiled Lourdes
into turning performer with me. She was to be a tightrope
walker. But she was lukewarm to the idea, and after I took a
couple of bad falls my father ordered the trapeze taken down.
There was a great deal else in Camiling to distract my atten
tion. It was about this time that a friend from Manila, who
would later be my brother-in-law, arrived from the capital in
the first car ever seen in our village. It was a second-hand Hup-
mobile, and the commotion it caused was as exciting as my
father s election. It was a nine-day wonder, parked before our
house. The entire village collected in our street, and farmers
came in from the countryside to see the wonderful "cart that
travels without a carabao."
I took my first automobile ride in that car, never dreaming
that it marked the beginning of the end of our Elysian age.
On the banks of the Camiling River I was circumcized, when
I was ten, along with sundry small friends by the town herb
doctor. We had looked forward to this event with longing and
dread, the one because it marked the first step toward manhood
and the other because we knew it would be painful. Somehow
56 I Walked with Heroes
we were all very certain we would be brave, and true enough,
when the day came, we were.
This rite stretched far back in the Philippine past. And as if
we were required to see both sides of the coin at the same time,
we were simultaneously preparing for first communion. These
two events gave a true picture of Filipino life, with old customs
and beliefs side by side with the new.
The preparations made in our household for my formal ac
ceptance into the Christian faith made me realize it was a spir
itual crisis in my life. There were not only the long hours spent
memorizing the catechism, but I had to be outfitted from head
to toe in shining white, symbolical of the purity within. In white
suit, stockings, and shoes, aglow with faith, I moved forward
with my fellow communicants in the old church on the Plaza,
between pews filled with relatives, and down the aisle toward
the altar.
The church was as familiar to me as my own home. I had been
baptized there. Now it seemed more awe-inspiring than ever
before. I was aware of the solemn presence of the priest, waiting
between the altar boys before the altar. He was no longer a
friend but a transfigured being.
Then above the altar I saw the reassuring painting of St.
Michael. This was his church; he was the patron saint of Cami-
ling. He was also my favorite saint. My grandmother had told
me often of his bravery. She had told me of many saints, but I
preferred St. Michael above all others because he had slain a
dragon! An archangel who could challenge monsters and win
was definitely the patron saint for me.
We were growing up. One of the symptoms was a tendency
to separate into pairs of boys and girls and dance in one another s
homes after school. We had no dancing class in Camiling. We
taught one another the one-step and two-step and waltz.
Then we were outgrowing the brick school on the Plaza. It
went only through the seventh grade, and when we graduated
I Walked with Heroes 57
we would be ready for high school. There was no high school
in Camiling, and I was wondering where my education would
be continued, when a change in my father s career settled the
problem.
While I was still in the seventh grade his friends decided that
he had been so popular as Camiling s mayor he should run for
governor of our province of Tarlac.
Once more our family entered upon the excitement of life in
a home that was also campaign headquarters. Men came and
went by night, by day. Posters were printed, speeches written.
My mother moved calmly through the upheaval, welcoming
all who came, moving her household affairs on an ordinary
schedule despite my father s hectic plans. Our doors were never
closed. Our kitchen stove never grew cold.
My father won! There was a massive fiesta in Camiling the
night the returns came in. My father stayed in our house sur
rounded by his family, and wjp saw his happiness as victory grew
clearer with each report.
What made him proudest of all that night was the fact that
our own home precinct had voted for him to a man.
The celebration began all over the village, and concentrated
around our house until there were only heads to be seen from
our windows, shining in the flare of the torchlight parade. The
torches were bamboo poles threaded with wicks and filled with
petroleum.
There were bands, many and glorious, pounding away in
triumph under our windows. To the sound of loud music my
father was marched to the Plaza and I, standing under the plat
form in the effulgence of his glory, listened to the speeches made
in his honor. My skinny chest was ready to burst with pride.
Then he spoke my father. I had never heard him speak in
public before. He made no effort toward oratory, but what he
said was simple and honest and from the heart. The people of
Camiling cheered loudest of all for him.
What circus could ever hold the thrill of this spectacle!
58 I Walked with Heroes
When I finally went to bed that night I was certain I would
never be able to sleep. But I did fall asleep, for sometime later I
was awakened by soft music and singing. Under our windows
an orchestra and a group of singers were serenading my victori
ous father. They were singing the Kundiman, the Filipino love
songs, hauntingly Spanish, sung in Tagalog in minor keys. I
thought I would never hear anything more beautiful. Half
asleep, I was thinking, "They are singing to honor my father.
This is his reward for being a good man."
There have been unavoidable pitfalls along my way over the
years, and although I never entirely lost sight of the ideal set
before me that night it would be far in the future before I
realized that I actually asked little more of myself than to be a
good man like my father.
Four
NOW that my father was governor we moved to Tarlac, which
is the capital of our province.
The move provided adventure in itself. Our household goods
were sent on ahead in great lumbering carretones and carro-
matdSy driven by the equally lumbering carabao and pony, and
the family followed in these same unwieldy and uncomfortable
carts. The dusty roads seemed endless, and we children were
tired and quarrelsome by the time we reached the village of
Bayambang. But before reaching Bayambang we were revived
by the excitement of fording the Camiling River on a raft. At
Bayambang we boarded a small slow train that brought us
eventually to Tarlac. I started high school there and life took a
sudden leap forward.
Tarlac is described as a small city, but it seemed large and
cosmopolitan to a boy from a country town. At first we lived
in a rented, furnished home. Although later my father bought
a house in Tarlac, Camiling remained home to us all.
I expanded as a social being in the Tarlac years. We were a
friendly family. It would have been difficult to be a recluse in
a family as large and outgoing as ours. My parents had a gift for
making friends, and our outlying family circles alone would
have insured generations of social interplay. In our turn we chil
dren made friends and brought them home.
Life became fuller and more pressing. I discovered girls in
high school, or perhaps they discovered me, for I cannot recall
a time when I did not know that girls were in many ways more
attractive than my boy playmates. I was still in my freshman
59
60 I Walked with Heroes
year when I narrowed this discovery to one girl and began
"dating" seriously, as it is called now. "Going steady" had no
connotation of precocity in those days.
A high school romance could not be very serious in that well-
guarded era. One walked home with a girl after school, carrying
her books and umbrella, hung about her house evenings with
out courage to knock at the door, and danced with her as often
as she would permit at the informal affairs given in our homes.
Urged on by romance I coaxed my sympathetic grand
mother, who had remained in Camiling, into giving me enough
money to hire a four-piece orchestra, which played in honor of
my love at a small dance given in our home.
Ours was an idyl of the teens. The girl was a minister s
daughter and very pretty, in my eyes beautiful beyond descrip
tion. Nevertheless I did my best to describe my feelings, and in
so doing found my first true ambition and ultimate goal.
As we walked home from school I would see an envelope
tucked into one of her books which I was carrying. Without
comment I would extract the note, slip it into my pocket, and
replace it with another note filled with my effusive emotions of
the day. Meantime we would chatter brightly, both pretending
to be unaware of the exchange.
Once I had handed over her books and bade her a fairly
formal good-bye at her door I would rush home to read her
letter in exquisite privacy. The sentences were correct and
spare, but I read into them all I longed for. Then I sat down to
compose my reply, when I could let my heart soar freely and
write all I longed to say and hear.
The ecstacy of first love was in those letters. I was certain this
attachment was to last forever, and I poured into it my first love
prose and my first poems of love.
She answered each letter, via the book, but she never men
tioned my poems. This hurt, because ambition was taking shape
in my mind. I wanted to write. I would be a poet, like Guerrero
or Recto or Balmori.
I Walked with Heroes 61
I had now seriously determined to be a teacher. But why
could not teaching and writing go hand in hand? So in the
Tarlac high school I began my preparation for the career that
would underlie and survive all others that of writing.
An outsider might have wondered where I found time for
this demanding occupation. School studies and homework,
sports and social life apparently filled the days. But I had short
cuts to leisure.
In the first place my romance was not entirely without its
practical side. My girl was as smart in math as she was pretty,
and I was as hopeless as ever at numbers. I had reached the con
clusion that nothing dealing with numerals could ever be ab
sorbed by my mind, and I gave up any effort in that direction.
The object of my affections and several other classmates were
generous in seeing that I managed passing grades in math, and
in turn I wrote for them the compositions in which I excelled.
In doing this I was actually competing against myself, but I
saw to it that I continued to get the highest English marks in
the class.
In every subject except math I was what actors call a "quick
study," so schoolwork never interfered with my interest in
sports. I liked all our high school games but my specialty was
sand-lot baseball. I would play till late afternoon, one of the
shouting, running, swatting boys in our nine; then, at home and
shut away from the world in the privacy of my room, I became
another being, dedicated, solitary. No longer the teen-age stu
dent, the player of games, the callow lover, I struggled with the
science of words and their meaning.
I was trying to write.
No one knew of this secret ambition. It had been born during
the siesta hours on our balcony in Camiling, when I had read to
my father in Spanish and English. Driven into me was an abid
ing delight in the sight and sound of words.
I had read then for his enjoyment and mine. The pleasure had
proved of further value. In school I was often asked to read
62 I Walked with Heroes
aloud, and my teachers would praise my ability. I liked to recite
poetry. I had even achieved a minor success in my class-rooms
as an elocutionist.
Now I had absorbed so much of good reading that I was
aburst with the need to express my appreciation in writing. My
growing emotions demanded expression. The daily love letters
and the almost daily poems never acknowledged by their fair
inspirer were part of this expression. But these were private,
confessions seen only by myself and my love, and I craved
wider recognition.
If I had any gift for writing I determined to find it out and not
hide my light under a bushel.
My first short story required much rewriting. When almost
every word had been changed many times I decided it was
pretty good. Now what did a writer do, after his work was
done? With much nervous pondering I mailed my maiden ef
fort to a favorite magazine, written for boys, in English, and
published in Manila.
Not until it was in the mail did I realize that the Philippine
Observer was a Protestant publication, published by a Protes
tant minister!
I was ravaged by hope and trepidation in turns as I awaited
each edition. The day came when I opened its pages and there
was my story, under my name in clearest type. It was the first
time I had seen my name in print. I was an author.
The sense of accomplishment I felt was overcast by dread,
for what would my father say? What would this outstanding
Catholic governor of a Catholic province do, when he found
his son s name in a Protestant publication?
I need not have doubted my father. He had an innate respect
for all faiths, for all people. Weak with worry I watched him
turn the pages of the magazine I had not been able to hide from
him; I saw his quick glance scan the fatal page. And his smile
grew. He looked at me over the magazine. "Why," he ex-
I Walked with Heroes 63
claimed, "this is wonderful! " He read the story aloud to all who
came.
The pride he showed was the starting bell that sent me on my
way. Since that day I have won a few literary awards and hon
ors, but none have meant more to me. I valued his praise because
I knew his love and reverence for writing was as deep as mine.
Now that my secret was out I gave way to ambition and
wrote freely. Poems and short stories poured from my agile
pen, to be sent abroad with fervid hopes, and invariably re
turned. My second acceptance was actually a setback.
I had sent a poem to the Philippines Free Press, the leading
weekly, published in Manila by R. McCullough Dick. He was
owner and editor and a fine author in his own right, so I was
intensely proud when he accepted my poem and published it.
It won a prize, and I bought ten copies of the magazine. I was
doubly affronted when my father read the poem and showed
none of the enthusiasm he had had for the short story.
Instead, he commented tersely, "You know poets die of
hunger."
I was deeply wounded. Into the verses I had poured all the
admiration I felt for our wonderful American teachers. The
poem was called "The Elect."
I felt better later, when I learned my father bought up all the
copies of the magazine he could find and mailed them to our
relatives for miles around.
Perhaps he was wise in trying to steer my writing into practi
cal lines. His dry, humorous attack on my romanticism was
badly needed. For I have no illusions about my early writings.
While written in English, they were emotionally Spanish. Until
recently Spanish literature was as rococo and ornate as Spanish
architecture. Since it was my first language, the speech of my
childhood, my first writings bore the Latin imprint. They were
not only flowery, they were florid!
News writing was to cure me of overwriting. I had to learn
to crowd words into the smallest possible amount of space, as
64 I Walked with Heroes
the "white paper shortage" is a bugaboo that rides every news
paperman s life. So it was just as well that my father shook my
faith in the muse as a means of livelihood.
I turned to playwriting. Camiling was planning a celebration
in honor of our greatest national hero, Rizal. In a blaze of pa
triotic fervor I poured into a play about Rizal all my lifelong
adoration of the revolutionary leader and his influence on the
Philippines. I formed a drama group among my Tarlac class
mates and directed the production. Then in a troupe we went
to Camiling and produced my play on Rizal Day in gala pre
miere. Shakespeare on a return visit to Stratford could not have
been more content than I.
Ambition had not struck with suddenness. I had made efforts
in one direction over the years, arrows pointing the way. Now
my sense of direction was firmly set. Writing and teaching were
enough for any man.
These adolescent years are important in the life of every boy.
I shall never cease being grateful to the father who helped steer
me through their eddies and currents. I was impulsive and
overly romantic; he was always ready with the right word, the
sensible, kindly hint of advice.
He led a busy life, for a governor s time can never be his
own. His office and his home were always swarming with peo
ple who had grievances to be adjusted or problems to be solved.
Still he found time for all his children, and gave to each his in
dividual attention and concern. To me, he was always available,
always watchful of my best interests. He was less my guide dur
ing these impressionable teens than my sponsor, my adviser. He
let me seek my own way, and then, as in the matter of the poem,
gave his opinion only when I showed I wanted it.
All he did was done with deep love and knowledge of the
sensitive feelings of an adolescent boy. He had studied his chil
dren as individuals since each was born, to determine our in
clinations and talents, and he had tried to guide us along ways
inherently our own.
I Walked with Heroes 65
For example, take my talkativeness. Did he know how valu
able the gift of gab would be to me? He never curbed my
chattering.
Once, when I was a very small boy still in short pants, he had
taken me with him on a trip to Tarlac. The train from the small
town of Paniqui was stuffy and slow and I, overly excited at the
prospect of seeing Tarlac, chatted like a myna bird. Three
young ladies of the Natividad family, friends of ours, sat with
us during the trip. I began telling stories to help pass the time.
The young ladies and my father sat spellbound, or perhaps
merely numbed, all the way to Tarlac, while I, a pint-sized male
Scheherazade, spun tale after endless tale. The young ladies:
laughed until they were weak, whether at my stories or my
earnest rendition of them I shall never know.
They were so amused my father made no attempt to check
me but let me carry on. When we left the train at Tarlac I was.
still talking.
My father eyed me in a thoughtful way. "Where in the
world," he asked, "do you manage to hear so many stories?"
I had no idea. I had that flypaper mind; nothing heard, read,,
or seen was ever lost.
After I grew to manhood I sometimes met those girls, now be
come women, and they would tease me about the way I had
beguiled the hours on the trip to Tarlac.
My father often remarked that I was "quite a talker." But he
said it without criticism.
And now in Tarlac, while I was in high school, my father
spoke to me seriously one night after dinner. "Carlos," he said,
"I think you are going to be an orator."
"Why, Papa?" I asked, for I intended to write and it had not
yet occurred to me that the craft of words could be utilized in
more ways than one.
He was in earnest. "I heard you, here in our home the other
day, talking with a group of your friends. You were discussing
some matter and the way you presented your arguments im-
66 I Walked with Heroes
pressed me. I have heard many good speakers and I know that
to speak well is a gift. Yes, I think you will be an orator."
So the idea was implanted in my mind, and in time I was to
follow it through.
I had only one fault to find with my father, and that was one
commonly felt by youth. While he was always very well-
dressed and a pattern of neatness his style was far too conserva
tive for my taste. I had been conscious of the way people
dressed since I was a very small boy, and in high school I
developed a decided leaning toward the flamboyant and un
restrained.
My father failed me as an ideal in this way. I had to look for
examples away from home.
My first was a cousin of ours, Vicente Bengzon, who was at
tending a Jesuit school in Manila. He had visited us in Camiling
when I was very small, wearing his school outfit black coat,
black bow tie, white pants, and black shoes. To add to his fas
cination at every step his shoes gave a raucous squeak.
I had no way of attaining his sartorial perfection, but it
seemed to me I should be able to achieve squeaky shoes. I con
sulted various people and was given various kinds of advice.
One told me if I stood my shoes in water overnight the soles
would tighten and squeak. They tightened, but they did not
squeak.
Someone else advised me to stand the soles in oil. Another had
me wedge strips of rattan inside the shoe, against the sole.
I tried all these methods with varying results in punishment
and pain, and then gave up.
Now a guest from America came to visit us in Tarlac, and I
could not take my eyes from this Beau Brummell from the
States! He was a judge, a Texan, and I was certain that what he
wore was the last sartorial word. He had evidently come to the
Philippines with no knowledge of our summer climate, for he
had on a blue serge suit with a vest, tan socks, and tan shoes.
I Walked with Heroes 67
I determined someday to have an outfit exactly like this worn
by the great man from America!
A few years later I duplicated the Judge s costume with the
first money I ever earned. I bought the blue suit, the tan socks
and shoes, and wore them as a splendid surprise for my family
for the first time on a Palm Sunday morning. When I came
downstairs in my finery I found the day was hot and my blue
coat already steaming.
My father, cool in tropicals, was sitting reading the news
paper, waiting for the rest of the family. He stared at me over
the printed page. "Wherever did you find such an outfit?" he
gasped. "And in this heat!" Then, glancing floorward, "And
why the tan shoes?"
I had to search for another sartorial hero pattern; I found him
after I went to the university.
University was already in my mind. My father was deter
mined to give every child, girl or boy, the best education he
could afford.
During my second term in the high school at Tarlac an event
occurred that crystallized my aim at higher education. The first
of the pensionados returned to Manila after their years of study
in America.
I had been too young to remember the time of their going,
but my father was keenly interested in this experiment as he was
in all educational matters. The pensionados were one hundred
and fifty of the brightest students in the provinces, who had
been selected to complete their studies in the United States.
Under the kindly guardianship of William Howard Taf t and
at the expense of the United States government, they had fin
ished their university education at various schools and colleges
in America.
Now these bright young men were back, and immediately
showed their capacity for organization. They moved into key
positions in the government. They would in time assume leader
ship of the country. They founded the Philippine Columbian
68 I Walked with Heroes
Association. Its members were all educated in the United States,
all boosters for democracy and lovers of America, and still the
Columbian Association was to be the bulwark of Philippine
nationalism. Quezon was to speak before it, and Roxas.
What an answer these pensionados were to the charge that
Filipinos were a benighted race, incapable of self -improvement!
And now as I write these words I must record the fact that
these erstwhile lovers of America are no longer her dedicated
partisans. Some of them feel that America has let the Philippines
down. They are not leftists. They have no leanings in the di
rection of Moscow. But they are disappointed that after the
loyalty shown by the Filipinos toward America, the lives sacri
ficed and the losses taken, the Philippines have not been given
as much consideration by the United States as have the people
of India or Japan.
From the American point of view this may be an understand
able oversight. America s main effort has been toward prevent
ing the spread of communism in the Far East, and to propping
up those countries that seemed about to fall under the hammer
and sickle. In the Philippines we had shown we could be trusted;
we carried out our own resistance against the Communists. As
a result, since, as the saying goes, the halted streetcar is never
run after our cries for assistance went unheeded. Promises we
felt should have been kept were postponed or only pardy
fulfilled.
Chester Bowles expressed the American policy when he
warned America, "keep a sharp watch on India, for if that coun
try falls, it means the failure of democracy in Asia."
The failure of democracy in India might well be considered
a calamity. But how much greater the calamity would be if
democracy should falter in the Philippines, the only Asian
country that since its founding has upheld the American ideal?
What loss of face then to America?
At the Bandung Conference American newspapermen
I Walked with Heroes 69
thought to honor me by reporting: "Romulo is pro- American.
He is defending America against the Communist charges."
They did me no service by those words. I was not defending
America; I was defending democracy.
In Tarlac I read every word printed about the returned pen-
sionados and the ways in which they were hoping their Amer
ican training would help to advance the Philippines. My father
and I discussed these young men endlessly. Then one of them,
Jorge C. Bocobo, came to our high school to speak, and I was
well in front in the audience. I was excited by everything he had
to report about America and the pensionado s experiences as
students in that wonderful country.
All the time he talked I was thinking, "Someday I ll go
there!"
I would meet Bocobo again. Later he became successively
President of the University of the Philippines, Justice of the
Supreme Court, and Secretary of Public Instruction. He is one
of our great intellectual leaders and a true nationalist. Many
years later a Filipino dance group called "Bayanihan," organ
ized by the Philippine Women s University, would trium
phantly tour the world and give the Philippines excellent pub
licity. It displayed the Filipino folk dances, which Dr. Bocobo,
as President of the University of the Philippines, was the first
to develop and cultivate as part of his cultural program for our
state university.
Another of the pensionados, who later became my friend,
also visited Tarlac about this time. He was Dr. Victor Buen-
camino, who had chosen to study at Cornell and who became
our country s first veterinarian. He arrived in Tarlac astride a
motorcycle, wearing goggles and leather leggings in our eyes
a creature from outer space.
The machine age was on its way to Luzon.
I had even seen my first airplane while on a visit to Manila to
yo I Walked with Heroes
attend the carnival. Open-mouthed, I stared skyward while an
American stunt flyer, a woman whose name I never knew,
climbed into a tiny single-seated plane on the water-front park,
the Luneta, and took off into the air. I couldn t imagine any
human being having the daring to do such a thing; for a woman
to do it was beyond my comprehension. Not for several years
would I see another plane.
Yet how many times since have I whipped across the oceans
by passenger plane, army bomber, and jet!
The pensionados* visit to Tarlac and their accounts of the
democratic living and glorious advantages to be found in Amer
ica left me with an unquenchable desire to see that country. I
had felt this since my earliest years, when my friend the ser
geant had introduced me to Baldwin s Primer and told me of his
country over the sea a land where apples grew and men did
not hunt one another by night.
"Someday I am going," I would tell my father, and he would
nod in serious agreement and say, yes, someday I must go. With
all his many responsibilities and his many children I know he
was seeking a way, while I was in high school, to send me for a
few years of additional education in the United States.
At this time, however, we were completing plans for the con
tinuation of my education in our country s capital. I had fin
ished my first two high-school years in Tarlac and we were
moving to Manila, where I would enter the Manila High School
in my third year.
My father s tenure as governor of Tarlac was over. He had
served for six years. To further the education of his children he
brought his family to Manila and rented a house on Calle
Cabildo in the old Walled City.
My ambitions were swelling. I was ready for the big city and
was confident it was waiting for me.
Nevertheless a large share of a boy s heart would be left in
Tarlac. There were good friends and happy memories, and sad-
I Walked with Heroes 71
dest of all was the parting with the minister s daughter. When
I said good-bye to her I was positive the love I felt would never
die, but when in the following fall I entered the Manila High
School as a Junior the first love in Tarlac became a dream,
misted over in the roseate effulgence of a love that was new.
Five
FROM the very first, Manila was my city. Since my introduc
tion to the former Philippine capital as a student I have visited
every great city in the world and there is none more beautiful. I
fell in love with Manila at first sight, and in turn it opened its
heart to me.
My plans called for four years of study my last two high-
school years and a two-year English course at the university in
the hope of obtaining my Bachelor s degree in Liberal Arts.
I plunged into work and the life of a great cosmopolitan city.
Camiling became a child s remembered paradise, Tarlac an
adolescent s dream. Life in Manila was real and earnest and filled
with action. I took part in activities both in and out of the class
rooms that would rob me of much of my sleep for the next
dozen years, but I have always been too interested in what is
going on about me to need a great deal of sleep.
My enrollment in the Manila High School was an experiment
on my father s part. He had radical ideas about education, and
as a former educator he was interested in studying the difference
in advantages between public and private schools. He decided
to divide the educational systems between his two eldest sons.
As a result I was selected to attend the public high school, with
the intention of ultimately going on to the state university,
while Henry, my older brother, who had announced his inten
tion of becoming a physician, was registered in the Ateneo
de Manila, privately run by the Jesuit Fathers. Later he at
tended the University of Santo Tomas. This historic university,
founded in 1620, would be made into the infamous concentra
tion camp by the Japanese during World War II.
72
I Walked with Heroes 73
My father lived to see both of us graduate from the schools
he had chosen, but what conclusions he drew from their ad
vantages or disadvantages we never knew. He was equally
proud of us both.
The public school system as set up in the Philippines with the
help of American teachers got me out into the world quicker
and I believe better equipped to make a living than most of the
young men I knew who went through longer years in private
schools. I am not referring to my brother, who in choosing
medicine had chosen the long, arduous, and always exemplary
way.
Fortunately for me study was easy as always, and I had time
and energy to spend on more interesting matters.
There were two debating clubs in the Manila High School,
the Cryptia and the Rizal. I had found my voice and was eager
to use it. Perhaps I recalled my father s prophecy that I would
someday be an orator. At any rate I applied for membership in
the Cryptia, which was considered the superior club.
One had to pass a preliminary test in the form of a debate be
fore being put up for membership. Three titles were written
on paper slips and placed in a hat. I drew the subject, "Should
capital punishment be abolished?"
Now it happened that at this time I was heartily in favor of
capital punishment, but since I was to argue in the affirmative
I reversed my guns and made a speech in full-voiced advocation
of its abolishment. I was unanimously invited into the club.
My adviser entered me at once into the preliminaries for the
annual debate. I won in the semifinals and was one of three
chosen to compete in the finals, where once more I found my
self declaiming passionately for the abolition of capital punish
ment. I gave my all to the contest, but one of the boys on our
side developed stage fright and forgot what he had planned to
say and we abolitionists lost.
But I had tasted blood. My father had been right and I was
going to be an orator. I entered every contest. Then came the
74 I Walked with Heroes
oratorical contest, which I have described in an earlier book,
where I won first prize with my heartfelt declaration on the sub-
ject, "My faith in America."
My father was deeply touched by the speech. "That settles
it," he told me. "Someday and somehow I m going to send you
to America."
I got my first job while in high school. It was temporary work
as a parttime Civil Service clerk in the provincial treasurer s
office at twenty pesos a month.
Recently I checked over my Civil Service record. There I
was, down as a clerk with my service rated as "satisfactory."
This twenty pesos was the first money I had earned. When I
collected my first month s pay I bought a peso rosary for my
mother. The rest I blew in on the aforementioned blue serge
suit and tan shoes that so startled my father. I got little wear out
of that outfit, but I continued to pay for it for many lean
months, at ten pesos per month.
Between school and the new job life was full, but I found
time for romance. My new love was a mestiza, a classmate at
Manila High; and again I carried books and poured out letters
and poems. Again my romance was not impractical, because I
admired not only her appearance but her intellect, for she was
a brilliant student both in physics and biology, subjects I had
added to my own curriculum and in which I found myself
completely hopeless.
In turn I helped her in her literary subjects. The pattern was
growing f amiliar.
Literature was still my chosen field. In my spare time I con
tinued trying to write. Through my father s political activities
I had become aware of the great power newspapermen could
wield. I saw some of the leading gentlemen of the Manila press
from afar, came to know them by face and name, and envied
these alert, aloof beings who daily swung the opinions of a city
their way.
I Walked with Heroes 75
The idea came to me with startling suddenness. I wanted to
write. Why not write for a newspaper?
I told my father this ambition. If I could get work on one of
the Manila papers, I said, I could give up my job as a clerk and
learn to write while working. It would not detract from my
schooling, I added hastily.
My father thought the matter over but said nothing, until a
few days later he introduced me to his friend Victoriano (Vic)
Yamzon. "This is my son," my father said. "He wants to be a
newspaperman."
Yamzon looked me over with friendly curiosity and waited
for me to say something. For once I was speechless. Yamzon
was the number-one reporter of Manila, the star of the Ameri
can newspaper, the Manila Times. I was awed by his good looks
and his perfect English.
They both seemed waiting for me to voice my ambitions, but
I continued mute. Nothing more was said. My father did not
mention the subject again.
As the days went by I could not forget the meeting with
Yamzon. I grew angry; I had muffed my chance. A few weeks
later, without a word to anyone, I walked boldly into the
Manila Times building and asked admittance to Yamzon s of
fice. Once more in that dazzling presence I lost the power of
speech.
Yamzon waited, more curious than before.
At last with an effort I broke through the vocal barrier. "Mr.
Yamzon," I babbled wildly, "I want to be just like you."
He grinned. He knew what I meant. Then he looked serious.
"Come in tomorrow morning and I ll recommend you to Mr.
Thibault for a job as cub reporter."
I knew my Who s Who of Manila journalism. L. H. Thibault
was from America, and the city editor and business manager of
the Manila Times. The paper also had the added luster of nobil
ity, for Wilmot Lewis of England, its editor, was later to be-
76 I Walked with Heroes
come Sir Wilmot, Washington chief correspondent of the Lon
don Times.
I found my voice. "What s a cub reporter?"
"That means you ll just be starting out so you won t get a
salary. After youVe served your apprenticeship as a cub and
become a full-fledged reporter then you get paid."
"How long will I have to be a cub?" I asked.
"That s up to you," Yamzon answered. Then he started.
"Say, why wait for tomorrow? Come with me and we ll talk to
Mr. Thibault right now."
I followed him in a daze into my first editorial room. What
followed happened easily and was quickly settled. Yamzon in
troduced me to Thibault with a casual, "Here s a young man
who wants to be a reporter."
The manager gave a quick glance at his star reporter from
over a mound of newly printed sheets and typewritten "takes."
Then he turned his gimlet look on me. "Be in tomorrow at
eight," he snapped.
That was all there was to that. I was a newspaperman. I was
a cub reporter and determined not to be a cub for long.
At eight the next morning I was again before his desk.
Thibault looked up from his never-ending task of editing
to brief me on the science of newswriting. In two sentences he
laid the premise that was to support me through many years of
reporting news. I ve cited these laws many times, for I ve found
no better advice for fledgling reporters.
Cram everything you know into the first paragraph that s called
your lead; go on from there.
Memorize the four W s who, where, when, and what those
are a reporter s ABC s.
Although I would receive no salary, he added, I would be
allotted two streetcar tickets a day.
He then mentioned offhandedly that my first assignment
would be the Senate.
I Walked with Heroes 77
I was astonished. Green though I was, I knew no cub was
ever sent to cover that august body. Yamzon was the Senate
reporter for the Times.
He saw my concern, and went on to explain that while the
Senate was well-covered by seasoned reporters who knew its
politics and were up on political facts, still he felt there was
room for a wide-eyed youngster with a fresh point of view and
an inquiring mind. I was to browse around the outside of Senate
affairs and pick up such extra tidbits as could be found. These
I would incorporate into a column to be called "Senate Doings."
I was to start this task on the following day after school. He
then jerked his thumb toward a typewriter, told me it was mine,
and apparently forgot me
I sat at the typewriter desk in that noisy, littered "local" room
and was blissfully happy. Reporters came and went, copy boys
rushed to and fro waving short "takes" and long galleys. Wet
inky proof pages fluttered under Thibault s hand. Bent over
the mountain of copy he did not look up.
There was a quickness, an excitement, and a knowingness to
all this that attracted me with passionate interest. I knew this
was my life. I listened to the arguments, reporrings, discussions
going at Thibault s desk the pounding untidy heart of this
activity and heard from the adjoining room the jerky roar of
the presses. What was going on out there?
I knew 1 would find it. I was going to learn the newspaper
business from one end to the other. A great deal was going on
in this Times office I did not understand, but I was going to
understand it all.
Not once did it occur to me that it was unusual for a cub to
become a columnist on his first day. I did not know that most
reporters work years before being awarded that plum of news
paper assignments, a column of one s own.
Thibault had told me mine would carry no by-line. That did
not bother me. Names of news writers were seldom printed in
Manila or anywhere else at this time. Anonymity would help
7 8 I Walked with Heroes
me to conceal my job on the Times from my father, for until
I had graduated from the cub division and had a salary I did not
want him to know about it. The family could think me in study
hall afternoons or playing baseball. Being a newspaperman was
my secret, I hugged it to my heart.
"Romulo!" It was my first desk call and it sounded like
thunder.
A fire alarm had sounded over my head and Thibault was
beckoning. The other reporters were busy at their typewriters.
"You," said my city editor, jerking an iron thumb my way,
"cover that fire!"
He gave ine the location and I dashed out as if the city of
Manila, were threatened with combustion. The fire was in a
shed and quickly extinguished. Panting, I returned to my office,
to my own desk and typewriter. Just as my fellow reporters
were doing, I inserted the short paper sheets under the roller.
Then I realized I did not know how to type.
A furtive survey of the room reassured me. Some of the best
newsmen in Manila were in that local room and none of them
seemed to be other than two-finger virtuosos on the lettered
keys. Just the same, some of those men were rapid typists.
What man can do, I can do has always been my motto.
I hunched over the desk and began to write. By hunt and
peck on the typewriter, in true reportorial style I pounded out
my first news story on a machine as noisy as a harvester.
This was to be my masterpiece. Three pages of throbbing
prose were pecked into being. I had every intention of writing
much more, but Thibault had looked at the clock, then at me,
and sent a copy boy over to snatch the last page from my type
writer. So it was that midway in inspiration I learned the nature
of a deadline. Thibault took the time to remark that stories not
ready by deadline never saw print, and I wistfully watched my
first news story vanish into the maw of the composing room.
Now I learned that I was free for the day, and that the first
edition would "hit the streets" that afternoon at two-thirty. At
I Walked with Heroes 79
that hour I was posted in a strategic position in the ice cream
parlor La Favorita. Seated at a table by the window I nervously-
consumed dishes of ice cream and watched the pressroom door
like a hawk waiting to pounce. When the first horse-drawn
delivery trucks rolled up to that door I was out with my five
centavos on the ready for the first paper off the press. The hot,
damp, inky smell of those limp sheets was wonderful and would
always be. Even now, years from the reportorial life, I love the
stinking fragrance of a paper right off the press.
My story was not on the front page where I had confidently
expected to find it. I tore through the pages, column by column,
line by line. At last, in a collection of local odds and ends labeled
"Police News," I found my masterpiece shaved down to a brief
item known as a "take."
Well, there would be other assignments. But it took courage
to report before Thibault s desk after school the following day.
He was too busy to say much. "Read your story yesterday?"
I spoke more coldly than a cub should to a city editor. "Yes.
I found it. Finally!"
He looked up at that. "Then you ve had your first practical
lesson in news reporting. Brevity and a sense of proportion. If
you needed three pages to describe a fire in a shed how much
space would you want if Malacanang Palace burned to the
ground?"
A subdued cub set off for the Senate.
In its pressroom I found the Valhalla of that newspaper world
of which I had dreamed. These godly men, who covered the
high offices of my country, were of heroic stature to me.
They were absorbed in their own impressive affairs and paid
little attention to a green cub doing parttime reporting when
he was out of the classroom. I was fifteen and to my annoyance
looked younger. They were men of years of experience, thirty-
five to forty years of age. They were leaders in the newspaper
world, and later they were aU to become civic and political
leaders in the Philippines.
8o I Walked with Heroes
I looked upon them with awe as men who were established
in their careers. I did not know they were on their way to
greater power and feeling their way as I was feeling mine.
Yamzon was top man in this group of experts. He was my
sponsor and found time to introduce me to his colleagues. Their
newspaper writings were unsigned but they were famed in the
city, and I recognized each man by name. They were fine writ
ers and distinguished men.
Among them was Manuel Briones, a member of the Spanish
Academy; Claro M. Recto, whose poetry I knew by heart,
having read it to my father in Camiling; Arsenio N. Luz;
Luis Improgo Salcedo; Francisco Varona; Ramon Torres; and
Vicente Almoalla, star writer for the powerful Manila Daily
Bulletin and Yamzon s chief rival.
These men took a slightly superior attitude toward me at
first, but Yamzon s introduction brought me into the fold. They
took turns walking me through the Senate chambers, explaining
the workings and introducing me to all we met who might be
of help to a new reporter.
They invariably introduced me as the son of Governor Ro-
mulo, which I discovered did not handicap me in the least.
Everyone we met seemed to know and think highly of the
gentle, studious Governor from the provinces.
These older reporters might easily have ganged up on an
eager-beaver boy reporter muscling in on their terrain. Perhaps
they were kind because I had no idea I was doing that. I was
fascinated by all they told me and all I saw, and without their
concerted help I could never have produced my opening col
umn on "Senate Doings."
As a result of this help, it was singularly good for a first col
umn and I took pride in it.
My only regret was that I could not show it to my father and
tell him how highly he was regarded by the men I had met in
the Senate building. But I would not let him know until I had
I Walked with Heroes 81
a salary to show. So I wrote my column for three months before
my father learned I was working on the Times.
Considering the trend my life would take later on I cannot
think of better training than was given me during the three
months I worked without salary on the Times. I worked hard.
I would follow a lead through to its end if it took all night. I
learned to assemble facts, to write as well as possible the thing
I wished to say, and above all, to save space. I read every word
written by the older reporters I so admired and studied the
way they handled reports and interviews. This was training of
the best kind for a newspaper career.
Although I did not know it then I was also receiving free
training in the school of diplomacy.
During my three months as a cub I learned the importance
of connections and of preserving them whether one liked the
connectee or not. I learned not to show disapproval or anger
and to delay ill will under the cover of expediency. I learned
to distrust certain politicians and to trust others and to treat
both sides fairly. I might dislike a man and all he represented,
but if he was a source of news I accepted him as a good source if
not as a good man. It was not my business to judge and condemn.
I was a reporter, a shell in which the voices of other men re
sounded.
With this tolerance I won the trust of men in key positions,
and from time to time they would give me exclusive items. My
little column was creating a small but growing circle of readers.
Among its followers was my father, and I drew out his com
ments with breathless anxiety but dared not tell him the author
ship was mine.
Evidently the Times thought it was all right, for at the end
of three months Thibault told me the paper had decided to
keep me on. I would now be a full-fledged, salaried reporter.
My first thought was, "Now I can tell my father! "
My financial affairs during these vital three months had been
decidedly rocky. All I had to sustain my high-school days and
82 I Walked with Heroes
my afternoon working hours were the two daily streetcar tick
ets and the small allowance given me by my father. This left
little leeway for the ice cream that was my indulgence. Now in
a pleasurable daze I heard Mr. Thibault say my salary would
be seventy-five pesos a month, and as added largess I would
receive each month a full booklet of streetcar tickets.
My mathematical sense was as weak as ever, but I was able
to calculate the princely income of seventy-five pesos a month!
The peso was then worth fifty cents in gold.
I doubt if I actually believed in this windfall until I collected
my first month s salary and carried it home intact to show my
father as proof that for three months I had been a columnist on
the Times. He made no attempt to conceal his delight, and his
praise went to my head.
"From now on," I told him importantly, "I want no more
allowance money from you. Fm independent. And what s
more, I expect to pay for my board."
The indulgent parent became an outraged patriarch. "As long
as I am alive," my father stormed, "no son of mine is going to
pay board in my home! "
Sub rosa, I offered my earnings to my mother. To my surprise
she accepted the money without comment and from then on
I turned nearly all I earned over to her.
One month later I was sent for by Frank Holland, city editor
of the Cable-News, the American rival sheet of the Manila
Times. Holland was an editor out of The Front Page, and his
dramatic personality hit me like a blow. He was bald, he was
smoking a cigar, and he wore an eyeshade that cast a fascinating
green tint over his bulldog features. He was tough, keen, all
dynamo. I took one look at Holland and knew someday I would
own an eyeshade like that. Another hero had entered my life.
Holland wasted no words. "Rommy," he started in, as if he
had always known me, "I hear you re doing an up-and-coming
I Walked with Heroes 83
job of reporting on the Times. We have a vacancy. How about
coming to work for us at double your salary?"
Double? That was one hundred-and-fifty pesos. Just like
that! While I was still counting, I remembered. Yamzon and
Thibault had been wonderful to me. There was that little matter
of loyalty.
"I ll have to consult my friends on the Times" I said.
Holland squinted under his green shade. "Don t take too
long. If you aren t back by ten tomorrow I ll have to look for
someone else."
I rushed back to the Times and found Yamzon there. Breath
less, I poured out my story: the offer, my sense of loyalty, my
gratitude to him for getting me my job on the Times. Under
these circumstances, I asked, was it right for me to go over to
the Cable-News? "At double the salary," I added, modestly.
Yamzon blinked. "Grab it!" he told me.
"But I like the Times!" I wailed.
"Son," he said, with more warmth than he had ever shown,
"the newspaper game is a tough game. It won t look out for
you. You have to look after yourself. When you see a better
spot than the one you re in don t ever hesitate. Grab it!"
I was wretched with indecision. I went to Thibault and told
him all. He looked at me just as Yamzon had, then in almost the
same words he gave his advice.
"Don t wait. Grab it!"
I still was ridden with doubt. I confided my problem to every
member of the staff I knew.
Their enthusiasm for my leaving was so unanimous I began
to suspect I was not very well-liked on the Times! I would
realize later how generous they were in their attitude. This was
long before the Newspaper Guild was formed and many a good
newspaperman would die in a harness grown burdensome be
cause out of loyalty he had stuck to a job without a future.
I still favor loyalty. It is the key quality for which I have
chosen my young candidates for diplomatic training. But it
84 I Walked with Heroes
must be tempered with reason and an eye to one s personal
future, and not given blindly.
That night was spent in mental wrestling. Morning came and
I was still uncertain as to the justice of deserting the Times.
Ambition won, and I am glad it did. I was in the Cable-News
pressroom at ten o clock.
Holland didn t seem surprised to see me. "Now get this
through your head," he said grouchily. "One-hundred-and-
fifty pesos is a lot of money. We re only giving it to you because
of what we ve heard about the way you ve worked on the
Times. We re paying you twice as much as they did, so we ex
pect you to do twice as much good work for us."
He explained what was expected of me, and it was indeed
double if not triple the work I had been doing.
I would not only continue to cover the Senate, but I would
also cover City Hall. Added to these duties would be a new in
novation borrowed from newspapers in America. I was to col
lect the vital statistics and print a daily list of all who had mar
ried, died, or been born.
Where will I get these lists?" I asked.
"Board of Health for the births and weddings. Cemetery for
the deaths."
"But those places are at opposite ends of town!" I burst out,
for nothing had been said about car tickets and I could see my
fine new salary melting before the demands of travel.
Holland threw in one last splendid touch. "You ll have
streetcar tickets unlimited. As soon as one book is used up just
go to the cashier and sign for another."
I had arrived.
As further proof Holland pointed to the desk next to his own
and said it was to be mine. It was the spot of honor in the local
room. I remembered my desk at the Times in the littered corner
far below the salt and wondered blissfully why I had ever
hesitated.
When I told my mother I was receiving one-hundred-and-
I Walked with Heroes 85
fifty pesos for after-school work she told me to stop talking
nonsense. When I assured her it was true she was overwhelmed
by a mixture of pride, anxiety, and dismay. Was it right for a
sixteen-year-old boy to be earning an income of that size?
"Think of it," she kept repeating. "For a boy still in high
school to earn so much, and your older brother who is in private
school has not made even a centavo! "
This was not entirely fair, since Henry had chosen medicine,
which takes years more study than a general course, while I
had chosen a way which for me was an easy and facile one.
When I told her to choose a gift from my largess she found it
impossible to make up her mind. One might think she had never
been offered a gift before. But I insisted the first money from
my new salary must be spent on her, and eventually, after much
soul-searching, she settled upon a kimono. Nearly all the rest,
as before, I turned over to her without comment from either
of us.
My schedule would have wilted the stamina of anyone older
and less determined. I spent a full day in school and was ready
to start my news rounds about four-thirty. Time could not be
wasted, so I worked out a travel pattern that started at City
Hall, which was near the high school. There I cultivated sources
until a list of marriages and births would be typed out and wait
ing for me, and at times I could even arrange for them to be
phoned into the newspaper office. From City Hall I went across
town by streetcar to the Cementerio del Norte, where my
friend the caretaker was waiting in his office by the gates with
the names of the newly interred. From there I rushed to the
Senate, arriving around five when the sessions opened. As a rule
they ended about seven, but often I did not wait for the closing.
I listened until my interest waned, then took a farewell tour
around the building to pick up whatever leftover crumbs were
to be found in those august halls. Most of the time I left the
Senate around six, hurried back to the Cable-News, and turned
86 I Walked with Heroes
out my pockets. With my various lists and notes spread beside
the typewriter I began pecking out my reports.
Sometime around seven, with other reporters, I would wan
der off to a small Chinese restaurant on the corner for a light
snack, then I would be at my typewriter again, working often
until midnight.
No matter how late I worked, I was up early the next morn
ing and in my first class at nine.
Sleep did not matter. School was losing first place in my new
scheme of life. Life was concentrated for me in the local room
of the Cable-News, where the presiding genius was Holland.
From my desk beside his I watched him every minute I was
free. Under the green shade the x-ray gaze was steady, as he
read, edited and discarded, clipped and chose from the never-
diminishing mound of copy, wrote headlines and subheads, and
made up the front page.
I asked no questions. I watched and listened and puzzled out
for myself why things were done. I eavesdropped at confer
ences between Holland and top members of the staff as to the
choice of lead stories and scareheads and the "balancing" of the
front page that it might have items of interest to catch every
eye. I studied every column as the editions came to my desk,
trying to figure out why certain stories were given top play and
others were underplayed. What was a sure-fire head? Which
story had human interest? Which contained popular appeal?
I was in the newspaper business for good, and I planned to
master every angle. Whatever I tried, I wanted to be my best.
I had been that way in sports, in my studies, and in the debates.
Now I was out to win again. Holland was my master. I was
forming myself as a newspaperman in his image.
I was no longer satisfied with the dream of being a star
reporter. I wanted to be an editor like Frank Holland.
Another hero entered my life, who in the long run would
prove to be the most important of all. I have often told how as a
I Walked with Heroes 87
high-school senior I perched with other students atop the old
Spanish wall and watched Manuel L. Quezon step through the
gate broken in that wall to honor his triumphal return from
America with the confirmed Jones Act. This was one of the
finest moments in his life, and it was my first glimpse of the man
who was to mean so much to me.
Our nation was not yet a commonwealth. Quezon was Pres
ident of the Senate but all knew he was destined to be the future
president of the Philippines. "Mr. President," men called him
even then.
On this day he was the hero returned. The Jones Act was the
first definite pledge of future independence given us by the
American Congress. It permitted the Philippines to establish its
own legislative body. It was our first great triumph since we
had lost the struggle against America, and we owed it to the
persistence of our people, to America, and to Quezon.
He was the idol of Philippine youth. We who were young
on that day would we ever forget that gallant, debonair figure,
the radiant smile, the smooth, black hair shining in the sun?
We devoured every mannerism, every detail. Apart from his
heroic qualities, Quezon was the epitome of elegance. He was
wearing the first two-tone sport shoes we had ever seen, black
and white, and his tie and kerchief matched!
I had found another sartorial model on which to pattern my
appearance. Clothes had always been important to me, and
Quezon s appearance impressed this importance upon me for
life. A man who is well-dressed is at ease and sure of himself.
He is acceptable to others and to himself.
Within the week all the students I knew had two-tone shoes
and matching ties and kerchiefs.
Imitation did not stop there. We copied Quezon s walk, his
manner, his way of dancing. He had learned the tango in the
United States and we learned to dance it Quezon s way.
Now I had a living, three-dimensional hero to study, and I
88 I Walked with Heroes
wanted to know all about him and to know him personally. My
interest in politics increased with the return of Quezon.
Politics had taken hold of my imagination when my father
ran for mayor of Camiling. Afternoons in the Senate chambers
had increased this interest. I knew politics was the greatest
working power any country could develop. It would be of
utmost importance to the Philippines. Quezon was the focal
point of that growing power.
From my seat in the press balcony of the Senate I watched
Quezon in the presidential chair. I heard him speak. I might
have approached him perhaps in my reportorial guise but I did
not. I felt privileged to watch a true patriot who had greatness,
as well as good looks and charm. I was content to worship my
idol from afar.
It was due to this enraptured distant observation that I
stumbled onto the first great landmark in any newspaperman s
life my first front-page story.
Time meant nothing to me if I was interested. There was no
Newspaper Guild to check my hours, so if a story excited me I
stuck with it until its possibilities were exhausted.
I was in the press gallery at the Senate, almost dropping off
to sleep and wondering whether or not I should rush through
my assignment that night and attend the carnival. The time of
carnival, which marks the start of Lent and the end of gaiety
in Manila, is always one of laxity where work is concerned, and
one by one the other reporters had left the gallery to hurry to
the auditorium where the first of the great balls was being held.
Before leaving they told me the day s session had been dry as
dust. Evidently the Senators had the same opinion, for most of
them seemed drowsing in their chairs.
I longed to be off to the celebration, but duty clamped me to
my seat. Quezon started to speak. I sat up hoping some chance
observation might translate into the next day s news.
Then I was galvanized. Quezon was in one of the angry
I Walked with Heroes 89
moods I had heard other reporters describe with awe. He was
all fighter and leader the unquenchable soul of the Philippines.
He held a newspaper in his hand it was La Vanguardia, owned
by the Roces family, which had been attacking him and he
shook it over his head as he raged against its policy. What an
artist of drama he was in his anger!
His wrath shot through that lethargic meeting like an arrow.
I was hanging over the balcony rail, open-mouthed, too excited
to take notes. It was a scene more dynamic than any I had seen
played on a stage. It had been a long time since the Senate cham
ber had vibrated to such a storm. I turned around in search of
other reporters to share this intensity, but I was alone in the
gallery.
In fiery words Quezon denounced Alejandro Roces, his
paper, and his policy; then, with a gesture of supreme contempt,
he hurled the paper to the Senate floor.
I waited until the session ended, then galloped back to the
Cable-News as fast as I could go. Nearly all the staff had left,
but Holland was still at his desk. I started to babble my report,
but before I could finish Holland gestured toward my desk.
"Get to it," he said.
Hunt and peck on the keys, I slashed through the Senate ex
citement. Every word Quezon had spoken came back as clearly
to me as if it were a recording. My retentive memory had never
before faced such a demand. I recalled his every intonation,
each gesture, his mounting fury, the dismay of his Senatorial
listeners, and that final crashing moment when he had hurled
the Roces paper to his feet.
All the admiration I felt for Quezon was in that story. It was
not impersonal; it burned with his anger, which I felt as if it
were my own.
Holland read over my shoulder as I typed. His green shade
was pushed back on his bald head and his eyes were snapping
with excitement. He was all newsman then, nose down on the
hunt. As I came to the end of each page he snatched it from
90 I Walked with Heroes
the machine, scanned it with x-ray agility, and bellowed for
a boy to rush it into the pressroom, at intervals exclaiming,
"Wonderful! Wonderful!"
They say the test of a true newspaperman is his ability to turn
handsprings with excitement over each new story. Holland
had that ability. I learned, as I typed madly under his burning
attention, that I had too!
My story filled three columns on the front page of the Cable-
News the next day. Ours was the only paper in Manila that had
the story.
There is just one first front-page scoop in any reporter s life
time. I don t know how I survived the dullness of classes that
day. My story was unsigned, but every newspaperman in Ma
nila would know!
I set out after classes for the Senate, prepared to accept with
becoming modesty the laurels that were certain to be offered
me by the Senators and my fellow scribes.
My hopes fell as I entered. Felipe Buencamino, Jr., Secretary
of the Senate, was waiting at the door, and obviously he had
been stationed there to intercept me. I had never seen anyone
look sterner.
"The President has called all the reporters into his office,"
he announced. "He wants you there right away."
"What have I done?" I demanded, words to be spoken by
me often in an all too impetuous life.
No answer came from the guardian of the temple and with
quaking knees I followed him into the office of the President of
the Senate.
I had never entered it before. I was as nervous as in my boy
hood days when a farmer had caught me stealing mangoes.
Quezon was famed for singling out reporters who had roused
his anger. I had heard his diatribe against the publisher Roces
and I could picture myself reduced to quivering jelly on his
elegant rug.
The office was a splendid place. I knew that even as I ad-
I Walked with Heroes 91
vanced timidly toward his desk. Those blazing, beautiful eyes,
intent as a leopard s on its prey, were fixed upon me, and so was
the attention of all my fellow scribes.
Standing before Quezon, close to my hero for the first time, I
felt the emanation of power. It was like a psychic wave, im
possible to describe. Why some men have it and others do not
I have never been able to learn, but Quezon had it to an ex
traordinary degree. It was a positive magnetic charm that could
control and compel and terrify, as it did me in that moment
before his desk.
As frightened as I was, my reporter s eye did not miss an
object in that room. I noted the fine rug and the handsome office
furniture, the silent, watching ring of reporters, and, flanked
by two secretaries, the elegant graceful figure standing behind
his desk Quezon.
The desk was beautiful, of shining narra wood that was mel
low as old ivory. It was bare except for the morning edition of
the Cable-News. His beautifully groomed hand pointed at rny
scoop, three columns of irrefutable accusation in cold print.
"YouareRomulo?"
I felt very small and young David surrounded by Goliaths.
My muttered "Yes" was an adolescent squeak.
"And you wrote this?"
The eyes and voice of the inquisitor, the circle of the tri
bunal. I was on the rack. I wondered if I would ever know a
worse moment or if I would ever be able to live through this one.
He snapped, "Do you take shorthand?"
My answer was lower and squeakier than before. I had been
too nervous to think of adding "sir" to my answers. Then I
quavered, "Is anything wrong with it?"
"Wrong?" Suddenly the sun burst through clouds, the
wonderful wanning Quezon smile poured over me, his hand
went out and clasped mine. "My God, boy, it s wonderful!
You ve not only reproduced my speech you ve improved on it.
Let me shake hands with you."
92 I Walked with Heroes
Then the others were around me pounding my back and
shaking my hand with the generosity of newspapermen, who
will fight tooth and nail to prevent being scooped and laud to
the skies the opponent who has scooped them.
I basked in their praise. At last I was upper echelon ac
cepted and approved by my heroes of the press. But my eyes
were on the smiling, friendly man behind the shining desk
Quezon, hero of heroes from that moment on. In that first meet
ing he might have ordered me as he willed. I was his creature.
Quezon could win any person he chose with the warm, per
sonal charm that was his greatest asset as politician and man.
Perhaps he wanted to insure his victory when he called me
back to his desk as I was filing out of his office with the others.
He spoke in low, personal tones. "They tell me you re Gov
ernor Romulo s son, I ve always admired him. Tell me, where
are you studying?"
I explained I was just about to graduate from the Manila
High School and planned to enter the university in the fall.
"And your major?"
I told him, liberal arts.
His last words were, "Keep in touch with me."
I left his office knowing I was a marked man.
Six
THE meeting with Quezon changed me. I was obsessed with
the memory of the moment when that frightening figure of
power had relaxed and become all friendly charm, a man I
wanted to please and follow. I worked harder than ever in
school and at my reporting, hoping to continue to hold his
interest and respect.
He had shown definite interest in a cub reporter who had
worshiped him from afar, and he continued this interest. Each
time he entered the Senate chambers and passed under the press
gallery he singled me out for a wave and friendly grin. "Hello
there, Romulo."
This set me apart from my fellow reporters and caused me
to set my sights on a higher goal.
I began an unremitting study of the two men in the Senate
closest to Quezon. The meeting with the Senate President had
been my first close-range glimpse of power. These men were
power s next of kin.
They were Buencamino and Elpidio Quirino, the latter
would be our postwar president in the Philippines. These men
had been pleasant to me since I started as the Senate s youngest
reporter. As I made my late afternoon rounds in the halls I often
tapped meekly at their office doors. Sometimes they would ask
me in and even favor me with choice bits of news. Since these
tidbits were always items the other reporters were not given I
had proof of their liking. Now that I had passed Quezon s
burning-eyed survey their kindness was even more pronounced.
Sometimes their doors remained closed. Sometimes all doors
93
94 I Walked with Heroes
seemed closed to me. Things were going on inside those rooms
in which a boy outsider had no share. How I envied the two
who were never barred from any office, not even Quezon s!
They were close to him, in his confidence, all-knowing.
How did men attain such places of power?
I was only a high-school student. I felt puerile, timid, unsure
of myself. I had none of the confidence of these leaders I so
admired and no idea how that confidence could be developed.
How did they get that way?
I was haunted by the memory of that inner chamber that
held the heart of Philippine affairs. I remembered the terrifying
presence that had become kindly and human to a small, scared
reporter. And I made a promise to myself that if ever I attained
a position of authority I would try to remember to be kind.
It was a promise I have tried to keep.
Why was I so obsessed with respect for power? What inner
demand kept my nose to the grindstone when I should have
been enjoying light-hearted youth, and why, after half a cen
tury, does it drive me still?
At home my skyrocketing career was followed with pride
and dismay. Why this probing into political interests beyond
my years? Why was I determined to make every waking hour
count? Why wasn t I content with high-school friends and
games and studies and girls and dances as were the other boys
of my age?
And the answer, too easy to speak, so difficult for others to
understand, was the charge laid upon me in babyhood. I was a
Filipino. The need to uphold the dignity and honor and pride
of my race had been impressed upon me at my grandmother s
knee. I had absorbed it from my parents. The study of my
country s history in my growing years had translated this pride
into facts. Mine was a good race. Ours was a good country. I
loved every foot of it that I knew Manila, Tarlac, Camiling.
I had been reared in a wonderful country among wonderful
I Walked with Heroes 95
people and I wanted all the rest of the world to know and re
spect the Philippines.
I grew in importance as I grew in years because I was a Fili
pino. To do my best, to increase and never lessen my country s
pride was the underlying motivation of all I might attempt. To
that end I had flung myself into sports and studies, into the de
bating clubs and journalism. I had to be outstanding, to make
the greatest effort to win, to prove I was capable not in spite of
having been born a Filipino but because I was a Filipino.
This has been the driving force of my life. It has also been a
restraining force. There were many times I might have given
way to loss of temper or dignity, and would not because I am
a Filipino.
As one of the new generation of Filipinos under American
authority I had the advantage of the new educational and gov
ernmental methods America introduced. It was up to me and
the others to show the Americans that we had profited. Amer
ica had promised us our independence. It was up to my genera
tion to prove worthy, to prove that all they had done for us and
all we were doing to aid our own self-development was worth
while.
Someday the Philippines would be free, like America. It
rested upon my generation to be ready when that time came and
show the world what we could achieve.
All the students I knew were talking, working, planning to
ward that end. If I had talents for voicing their longings, for as
suming leadership I was determined to develop them fully. We
knew what the rest of the world thought of the Filipino, if it
thought of him at all. He had been taken over by the Americans.
The sovereign powers ruling in other Asian countries were
spreading adept propaganda to prophesy that we never would
be able to develop as a nation and that America would be foolish
indeed ever to give us our freedom.
So all that my generation had to look forward to rested upon
that single word freedom. It is the most important word in any
9 <5 I Walked with Heroes
language. It was the basis of a new life that had been promised
us and for which we determined to prove ourselves worthy.
We had faith in ourselves and in America. I retained my faith
in America my prize-winning high-school oration proved
that. I had brought it with me from Camiling to Tarlac to
Manila, and there I must admit my burning idealism received
several dousings of very cold water.
The Americans I had known in the province of Tarlac were
sincere, dedicated people who had come to the Philippines to
help the Filipinos and were prepared to share our lives. They
liked us and showed it. They appreciated our history, our
values, and our sense of pride. They were living examples of the
democracy they had come to teach, and we could not have had
finer. I was certain all Americans were friendly, wise, and fair,
like our friends in Camiling and Tarlac.
Then we moved to Manila where disillusionment was slow
but irrefutable. We still had many American friends. But grad
ually I became aware of a cancer of ill will growing in the city.
It was turning against us, the Filipinos.
There was an American element in the city that associated
with Americans only and was openly contemptuous of what
they called "the natives."
I heard such reports and refused to believe them. In the first
place, I argued, Americanism was a form of faith, and no true
American sneered at another race. America itself was made up
of many races, and all were equal. And again, so I protested, the
Americans were people of breeding and would never behave
unpleasantly in a country where they were guests.
So I argued, so I believed, and I had to find out for myself.
The America I had imagined, having heard of it, read of it,
and dreamed of it all my life, was a looking-glass world into
which I would step someday to prove to my own satisfaction
that all the glowing reports were true. Meantime I was content
to know it existed as an example of Christian charity for all the
earth.
I Walked with Heroes 97
My eyes were opened on the afternoon I dropped into the
Manila Army and Navy Club at the invitation of an American
friend.
Since this is a deeply personal account of myself I am sure I
have made it painfully clear that I had at that time a high sense
of my own value, as a person and as a citizen. A large and affec
tionate family circle, a larger group of Filipino and American
friends had not served to lower my self-esteem. As a governor s
son doors opened before me and I never questioned my right to
go wherever I was asked and chose to go. Two years in the
Manila High School, where my journalistic and debating suc
cesses had made me a very large toad in a very small puddle,
and my brief but telling career as a gentleman of the press had
added to my self-assurance.
I was accustomed to entering the offices of our government
leaders. I was accustomed to associating with Filipinos and
Americans, to dining, visiting, meeting with both on intimate
terms of friendship. I had grown up believing that all Americans
believed as they had taught us to believe that all men are equal.
As I walked into the Army and Navy Club that afternoon
the question of racial distinction never occurred to me.
A club servant met me at the door. He was a Filipino and did
not mince words. "What do you want to come in here for?" he
asked bitterly. "This is an American club for Americans and
they don t want Filipinos in it."
I knew he was telling the truth and that the worst I had heard
was true. It was the first humiliating experience of my life. I
have survived it, but I have never forgotten its ugliness, and I
never shall.
Many writers have described the ease with which I meet all
types and situations and explain the fact that I accept and am
accepted because I take my welcome for granted, I carry no
chip on my shoulder. I carried no chip until that day when I
found myself barred from a club in my own country, and I
dropped it on that same day.
9 8 I Walked with Heroes
For I returned to high school sick at heart. I was an embit
tered, unhappy young Filipino, and I might never have lost that
bitterness if I had not chanced to run into Michael J. O Malley.
He was my school principal and my favorite member of the
staff. To him I poured out the story of my humiliation. How
could I believe in America if Americans behaved that way?
His friendship and understanding may have saved America an
enemy that day. There is no emotion so devastating as humilia
tion.
"Carlos, the members of that club are military men," he told
me. "Army and navy people are alike all over the world. They
don t care too much about associating with anyone not in uni
form. Even in America they stick together. They re Americans
and I m an American, but Fm not army and they don t want me
in their club any more than they want you, and for my part I
haven t any interest in going there."
In those simple words he knocked the chip off my shoulder
for life.
I have told this story of O Malley many times before, along
with an account of our joyous reunion in San Francisco where
he was the first old friend to greet me in the United States after
my rescue from Bataan, but I repeat it here because it is the most
important incident in my early life.
I had been mortally wounded and would never forget. I made
up my mind to fight the injustice of unequal treatment on racial
terms wherever it appeared, and I have done that all my life, in
my first editorials, in speeches, in books and articles and inter
views, on TV and over the air, and on the floors of the American
Congress and the United Nations. It was the bus boy at the
Army and Navy Club who started me on this lifetime crusade,
and I am on it still, and am grateful to him.
This was one episode of my high-school years I did not report
at home. There was another, too, which was kept secret from
my family circle for some time my first plane ride.
Any sort of trip by air is a humdrum occurrence today, but
I Walked with Heroes 99
my first trip marked the end of an age for me and a glimpse of
the future world. It was not an adventure that would have been
shared with sympathy by my parents.
My flight was a newspaper assignment. I was to go up in one
of the first planes ever to soar over Manila. I accepted with
mixed feelings and almost turned back at the field. The pioneer
two-seater crate resting on the Luneta looked no larger than a
baby carriage. It was almost on that exact spot that I had seen
my first plane go up, years before, with an American woman
at the stick. It had taken some time for aviation to come to
Manila, but it was here and I was to be one of its pioneers.
I considered flatly rejecting the honor, but one does not turn
down an editor s assignment.
When I clambered into the first of the narrow seats I made
sure I was well strapped in. There was nothing between my
head and the sky.
By the time the flight was over I had run out of prayers. As I
staggered onto the ground I looked around in a dazed way. It
seemed to me I had survived with heroic fortitude and that
crowds should be there cheering. I was the only person I knew
who had ever been up in a plane.
A quarter of a century after this I would stand on the balcony
of the Herald Building overlooking this very spot and see the
great sky monsters of Nippon lifting in sinister formation over
our doomed city. MacArthur had telephoned; Quezon had
warned me from Baguio; the Japanese were over the Philip
pines! How many changes since that day on the Luneta when I
went up in my first plane.
My second meeting with Quezon came at about this time. An
open feud had broken out between the President of the Senate
and General Emilio Aguinaldo. The General had been a thorn
in the side of America during the revolution but he was one of
our greatest Filipino heroes, so this disagreement made many
people unhappy, including my idealistic self.
ioo I Walked with Heroes
Aguinaldo was supposed to have entered into a business deal
or at least loaned his name to a project with an American. Que
zon claimed a national hero should never have permitted his
name to be used in such a way. I was in the gallery with the other
reporters when Quezon in a furious tirade condemned Agui-
naldo s act. He raged. He smote the table with his fist. One of
the Senators rushed forward to see if the President had hurt his
hand, and Quezon, blind with anger, struck the man away.
I duly reported Quezon s actions and words.
On the following afternoon I was again in the gallery in time
to hear Senator Emiliano Tria Tirona defend Aguinaldo s ac
tions. He spoke with bitterness, and Quezon with equal bitter
ness renewed his attack on the General.
A battle between giants was being waged on the Senate floor.
As I was hurrying out of the hall with my notes Buencamino
stopped me. "Come into my office," he requested.
Now what! I wondered, apprehensive as always. But the Sec
retary appeared friendly, and after we reached his sanctuary he
gave me a smile that seemed to hold a glimmer of conspiracy.
"The President was talking about you last night, Rommy."
"Yes? "I was still worried.
Buencamino winked at me. "He has plans for you. You ll be
asked to his Pasay residence one of these days."
Anxiety perished, to be supplanted by a strange icy calm. So
this was it? This was the way things happened? I was starting
the long ascent upward. I looked at Buencamino and wondered
at what point and in what fashion he had set out toward his posi
tion of assured command.
I gathered it would be a matter of days before I heard from
Quezon. I waited, watching for the mail, leaping at every ring
of the phone. When the summons came it was through Guil-
lermo Cabrera, another of the Senate secretaries, now one of our
most competent judges.
How casual were the words! "The President wishes you to
have breakfast with him in the morning."
I Walked with Heroes 101
Awed, I hung up, thinking that is power! One man summons
another to breakfast and the guest goes knowing his future is in
the hand of his host. I had a conviction that my destiny was
rushing to meet me and would be upon me in the morning.
It was my first visit to Quezon s home. I was far from calm. I
felt I was about to change from youth to man, and I did not have
the appearance to match my good fortune. I was miserably
aware of my boyish countenance and the clear skin that had
never been touched by a razor.
Quezon was the picture of a man of distinction, as he sat in a
handsome brocaded robe, waiting for me in the breakfast room
at a table set for two.
I remember little of that breakfast visit. I recall only that I
choked down some orange juice and Quezon made some light
conversation. He asked me teasingly if I had reported his debate
with Tirona as accurately as I had his attack on Roces, and I as
sured him that I had.
Only at the end did he strike a serious note. "How soon do
you enter college?" he asked.
I told him, "Next June. High-school graduation is in a couple
of weeks."
The dark expressive look burned through me, then he asked
with paralyzing suddenness, "How old are you now?"
I had to tell him, mumbling, "Sixteen."
I caught a full view of myself in a hall mirror as I was leaving
dewy-skinned, round-cheeked, bursting with healthy ado
lescence. All I needed to complete the picture, I thought bit
terly, was a Boy Scout uniform.
Why hadn t I grown as rapidly as that man-size patriot
within? I was betrayed by my own downy youth.
Just the same I left Quezon knowing Buencamino was right,
the President had his eye on me. Time would reveal Quezon s
plans. My immediate need was to grow up.
Adding to the pressure of final exams and my job, I served as
editor in chief of our class annual. This gave me the opportunity
102 I Walked with Heroes
to write my opinion of myself and my future. The report gave
my motto as "Excelsior" and my ultimate ambition as that of
becoming a farmer.
Both these statements were true. I was ambitious, but no mat
ter what I might do in the active world I hoped some day to own
a farm as my people had for generations at Camiling. Don t
think I had any intention of personally cultivating my prop
erty! Not I. My intentions were to be a gentleman farmer who
rode out each morning on a handsome horse to inspect his bur
geoning fields.
It is an ambition still to be achieved.
Graduation is always a sweet sorrow. The two last high-
school years in Manila had been happy and active, although
shared on a co-existent basis with my newspaper career. Now
there were promises to be made, friendships pledged to last for
life (many of which would be kept), and a few tears shed by
the girls, most of them by the girl with whom I had shared my
rare leisure hours. There was the sadness of parting with the
teachers why did I always like mine, especially Mr. O Mal-
ley and the emotional congratulations of relatives gathered
together to see the boy launched toward manhood and an un
known destiny.
I was confident of that destiny. Two more years of schooling
at the university and I would be ready for fulltime living. Life
branched before me with many paths and I had but to chose
one. I was certain that I would make the right choice.
So far I had been able to do all I had set my heart on. I was
convinced that luck was a matter of knowing what one wanted
and then being willing to work to make the wish come true.
But then I was only sixteen.
Seven
WHEN I enrolled for the two-year course in the College of
Liberal Arts in the University of the Philippines I did not give
up my afternoon job on the Cable-News. The two years would
give me my Bachelor s degree and I could decide then whether
I wanted to devote myself to teaching or to journalism or some
how to divide my time between the two.
Meantime I prepared to savor campus life fully and I plunged
with enthusiasm into a variety of activities. I do not wish to give
the impression that I skimmed over studies. It was simply no
effort for me to memorize anything that did not include figures.
I could remember dates for they were history, and I could read
history with unceasing pleasure. Literature, my favorite of all
studies, could be memorized with a reading and never be for
gotten.
So there was time for the activities of the debating team, the
dramatic club, and extracurricular newspaper work, for I was
immediately elected editor of the Varsity News.
There was also time for girls, which as usual narrowed before
long to one particular girl. At that stage I was given to complete
fidelity, to one love at a time.
As editor of the college paper I was a man of distinction on
the campus. My newspaper training made the Varsity sheet
easy. I cast about for topics to enliven its pages. I fancied myself
in the role of a liberal editor ready to sponsor any noble cause
the campus should uncover. Youth is always in favor of the rad
ical and the new, if it is normal youth, and our student body of
the University of the Philippines was a normal group. We read
103
104 * Walked with Heroes
The Forum and The Nation and the New Republic and dis
cussed lost causes passionately. And because I was an editor on
the campus and a Senate reporter off campus, my opinions were
sought and accepted with flattering attention by my fellow
students.
I became the fighting editor who had never fought a battle,
but I was ready. That is the main argument against armament
prepare for war and one will develop.
It amuses me now to remember that my first campus crusade
was a highly unchivalrous attack on the Dean of Women. At
the time it seemed neither droll nor lacking in courtesy. She was
urging the college powers to deprive me of my campus city
editor.
Cornelio Balmaceda, my assistant on the Varsity News, was
a brilliant student in the Law College of the University. He
would later be Secretary of Commerce of the Philippines, one
of the best we ever had. He wrote and we published an article
criticizing a reprimand given another student who had some
how managed to offend the Dean of Women.
She retaliated by going to the Law College Dean and asking
for Balmaceda s suspension. The sentence was about to be car
ried out when I sprang into the breach with an editorial flaming
with indignation.
My father s example of unremitting courtesy toward the fair
sex must have been in the back of my mind for I did not attack
the Dean personally, I simply said nothing to indicate rny faith
in her judgment. I suggested that since Balmaceda was not chief
editor of the Varsity News and I was that I was the guilty party,
responsible for publication of the article. For that reason, I
declared, if Balmaceda was suspended I would walk off the
campus with him.
I asked that the Dean of the Law College deny the request for
suspension.
This was my first clarion call before the gates of the Bastille,
and it was unheeded by the campus royalists. Balmaceda was
I Walked with Heroes 105
suspended, and in a two-man walkout we left the campus to
gether.
And we stayed out, too, until the suspension was rescinded
and we returned to the college, still together!
It was an uncertain victory and made me suspect the printed
word was not always enough. Opinions on paper were strong
est when backed by opinions in speech. Quezon won his vic
tories by way of the spoken word. I became more determined
to excel in oratorical contests.
The debating club became my outlet in expressing all I was
feeling and thinking. The world was filled with injustices I
burned to see righted. I argued all the leading issues of the day
that in any way concerned my country and its people.
My protests were limited to the pages of the Varsity News
and the debating society, but my reputation as a firebrand was
growing. I had found my voice and it was not long before I
found a cause in which it could be raised.
L. H. Thibault, my former editor and the business manager
for whom I had worked on the Manila Times, roused my creep
ing suspicion of anti-Filipino prejudice among the Americans
in our city. He wrote and published an editorial attacking our
University President, Ignacio Villamor. His son, Colonel Jesus
Villamor, was later to become our outstanding ace and a hero
of World War II.
In my opinion the editorial was motivated by prejudice. It
seemed to me Thibault was attacking Villamor not as an edu
cator but as a Filipino, as if a member of a nonwhite race was in
capable of serving as the head of a great university. Mixed in
with my emotional resentment, I can see now, was the memory
of my experience at the Army and Navy Club. This was not the
sort of attitude the American teachers who had come to our
country would approve! It seemed to me cruel, unjustified,
non- American, and not to be tolerated in any country that was
flying the American flag.
Nor by any peoples under or apart from that flag.
I0 <5 I Walked with Heroes
So the editorial I wrote for the university paper burned with
all the resentment that had been growing in me since the day I
had been warned from the door of the American club. Now I
readied double ammunition for my slingshot I was prepared
to back up print with the power of speech! The editorial con
cluded with a summons to all members of the student body to a
mass meeting to be held on the campus in protest against the
Manila Times.
At the hour set students began gathering and an estimated
half-thousand were present when I got up to speak. It was the
first real unrehearsed speech of my life and it came from the
heart. I was remembering all our patriots, dead and living, from
Rizal to Quezon. The interrupting cries of approval and cheers
of my fellows went to my head like strong drink, and at the end,
in my most resonant tones, I summoned them to follow me in a
march of protest to the Manila Times building.
I started off over the campus and my audience fell in step to a
man. Cheering, we marched through the city to the Times
Building our Balintawak, our Bastille.
In his local room Thibault was warned of our coming. He
telephoned the police for protection. Before the authorities
could reach him the students were upon Thibault. We swarmed
into the Times building, into the pressroom. Those who could
not find places inside swarmed at the door like angry bees. I was
shoved forward to Thibault s desk to act as spokesman. Our
opinion of his editorial attitude toward our president was voiced
to the accompaniment of angry booings and shouts from out
side.
Thibault was nervous and showed it, but he eyed me as I
talked with a cynicism that left no doubt of his realization that
he himself, by giving me my first newspaper j ob, had set my feet
on the rocky road of protest that brought me now to his door.
I told him we were there to demand a retraction and an apol
ogy for the insult to our revered President, in print.
Before I finished, strong hands grabbed Thibault from the
I Walked with Heroes 107
rear and tossed him protesting into the air. But it was only a
couple of our sturdiest varsity players hoisting him onto his desk
so that all could hear.
From that elevation Thibault wiped his brow and announced
that his editorial had been written in good faith. In fact, he said,
it was written by a Filipino member of his staff.
I stood by our guns. "That may be, but we believe your
paper has attacked our President s capacity to run the Univer
sity because he is a Filipino."
Thibault protested that had not been the editorial s meaning.
Then, before our stony silence, he yielded. "I will be fair," he
said. "I ll print your Varsity News reply and my explanation
in tomorrow s edition. Meantime, I want you all to know that
I personally have the highest respect for President Villamor."
It was vindication! We marched back to the University,
cheering every step of the way.
That march to and from the Times building put me into the
millrace for life. In a small way I had helped spark and carry out
a campaign of protest. I had found two voices with which to
fight one in print and one spoken. I had used both with suc
cess. It was my first taste of power.
Now in newspapers, newsreels, and on TV I watch hordes
of young people marching in all countries. All over the world
youth is on the march. They brave the guns of police and sol
diers, fire hoses and jail, the wrath of their elders and the hatred
of those in power. They face disaster and death.
Why are they angry? What is it they are trying to say? And
why do we not listen and try to understand?
I remember those days of my own angry youth and our
march on the Times, and I can smile, remembering how dedi
cated we were and how we felt that marching with us were the
revolutionaries of all time. All we wanted was a few words
of understanding, an explanation. We won that and we were
happy and proud.
I suppose casual observers in the streets of Manila that day
io8 I Walked with Heroes
regarded us as a parade of noisy school kids. Outwardly we
were. Inwardly we marched to the rhythm of long-ago pipings
on Boston Commons and to drums that beat on the slopes of
Valley Forge. And to the cry of Balintawak!
We were striking our first modest blow for the acceptance of
the Filipino into the family of man.
Would Quezon have approved our action? Did he like the
collegiate editorials I wrote and the arguments I was making
for freedom? I had no way of knowing. He was as far away as
ever. But in two brief meetings he had lashed a bright light that
had cleared the way ahead for me. I knew where I was going.
Quezon was leading my country and I was following Quezon.
My hero worship was as profound, and as distant, as be
fore. I had nothing as yet to offer him, to draw his attention my
way. He knew my age, my school status, and my hopes. If the
time came when he might find need of me, he knew he had but
to call.
Meantime I crammed every day with activity.
The University dramatic club took a great deal of my time.
Perhaps every public speaker is at heart an actor. The stage had
great charm for me. I liked seeing plays and acting in them. I
hoped in time to write them. The writing and producing of the
Rizal play at the Camiling celebration had whetted my appetite
for drama. The interest carried over into University life and I
found the plays we put on in the dramatic club a delightful
means of self-expression. The debating club dealt with facts;
the drama club yielded to enchanting nonessentials. I was a
hard-working, thoughtful young man who enjoyed losing his
serious identity for a few hours in an imaginary world.
The club produced several plays a year, and in one, some
thing of MoKere s I believe, I was cast in the role of a beggar
who incites a mob to action in a long incendiary speech. Just be
fore curtaintime an excited report reached us backstage. Our
idol Quezon was in the audience!
Rushing with the rest of the cast to the curtain peephole I saw
I Walked with Heroes 109
my hero, flawlessly attired, suave, smiling, in the presidential
box. And I had to appear before this impeccable model in beg
garly rags!
I had my long speech to fall back on. I gave that all the emo
tional drive I possessed.
Afterward, while we were still in our costumes, Quezon
came backstage with his friends. I greeted him, in my grotesque
makeup and rags. There was amusement in the dark eyes prob
ing the mime s f agade.
"So?" he inquired. "You act as well as write?"
There was no answer to that. I was silent.
Then the Quezon charm turned on me full blast. "Rommy,
why don t you come to see me? " he asked gently. "In my home,
Saturday, before lunch?"
He was gone, leaving me to remove my makeup and costume
with trembling hands. How could I carry on normally until
Saturday? And "before lunch" what did that mean? Was I to
have lunch with him? I knew I would be too nervous to eat.
Then I remembered he had called me "Rommy." It was the
nickname used by my friends. How had Manuel L. Quezon
known that?
A country s head is at once the best informed and worst in
formed of all its citizens. I am still not certain why Quezon
came to the University theater that night.
He knew he was my hero. He was the hero of all Filipino
youth. Quezon was an idealist, but he was a pragmatist as well,
and the needs of the Philippines were his all-in-all. If any talent
of mine could serve those needs in the smallest way then I would
be grist for his mill.
I doubt if Quezon saw me at that time as anything but a
bright youngster who might be of use to him. Years would pass
before I knew he had come to value me as a friend.
That glowing, speaking look had burned through the stage s
frippery to the essential being. I had his summons; I would go.
This time Cabrera, his private secretary, waited for me at the
no I Walked with Heroes
door of the Pasay residence and took me directly to the Presi
dent. Quezon was not alone. A group of men were standing
around him; I recognized them all. They were the country s
leaders.
Then they stood facing me, my judges, serious, watchful.
There was a sense of portent in the room.
Almost a year had gone by since I had answered Quezon s
first summons. A great deal had happened since to strengthen
my assurance. I was no longer a high-school senior; I was in my
first year of college. I felt older, surer, more certain of myself
and my opinions.
There is a great change in a boy s life between sixteen and
seventeen.
So without qualms I faced the leader of my people and his
closest advisers. I knew, respected, and admired them all. There
were Quezon and Buencamino, Jose Abad Santos, later our
Chief Justice who would be killed by the Japanese; Conrado
Benitez, one of iny professors from the University; and Dr.
Jose P. Laurel, Supreme Court Justice, who was later to become
president during the Japanese occupation.
Quezon spoke, addressing me man to man. "Rommy, we are
going to bring out a new newspaper in Manila. We re calling it
the Citizen, and it will be the first Filipino paper to be printed in
English in this country. It s being organized to compete against
the Philippines Free Press. (The Free Press had been unfriendly
toward Governor General Francis Burton Harrison, a close
friend of Quezon s.) Benitez is going to be the Citizen s editor
and we want you for his assistant."
Then they stood waiting, waiting for my answer. Opening
before me were the dazzling vistas of privilege. What might
I not accomplish among men like these? With a leader like
Quezon?
And why, longing to cry out my grateful acceptance, was I
smitten dumb? All I had to voice was a single word.
I could not speak. Was I always to face decisions that tore me
I Walked with Heroes 1 1 1
apart? Less than a month before I would have leaped at this
offer. Now a strange quirk of fate barred me from the Elysian
fields.
Only three weeks before! Once more it had been a night of
carnival and again I had turned my back on festival to toil in the
night office of the Cable-News. It was late, but I would not
leave before completing my columns for the following day.
I missed Holland s presence in the office. My editor-hero had
accepted another job in the United States and had left Manila. I
missed him, and the paper was poorer for his leaving.
It is never easy to replace an editor of high caliber, and his
place on the city desk was being temporarily filled by one of the
men from rewrite.
This man was out when I arrived in the office, and when I
went out to dinner he was still absent. Holland s old desk was
piling up with copy requiring immediate attention. The rest of
the staff had gone home or to the carnival.
When I returned from dinner the city desk was no longer
unmanned. Evidently the desk man had found the job of acting
editor too much for him to handle, for he was sprawled over
the heaps of unedited copy, drunk. The pressroom reeked of
whiskey.
I opened the windows and rushed into the composing room.
The linotype machines were idle. The foreman was in panic.
"What are we going to do?" he wailed.
I rushed back to my own desk and phoned Irving Posner, the
publisher of Cable-News.
"There is some trouble here," I told him. Then, not wanting
to tattle on a fellow reporter, I explained tactfully, "We re hav
ing some difficulty in getting out the paper."
Posner snapped back, "Whatever is to be done, do it."
The pressmen and I removed the sleeping one from Holland s
old desk and I took his place.
The months I had watched Holland at work had prepared
me for this night. I remembered him, the green eyeshade, the
H2 I Walked with Heroes
cigar, the decisiveness with which he worked, as I picked up his
scissors and the thick editor s pencil. I worked as if I had been
making up an edition all my life. Stories were slashed and pasted
and fitted into dummy sheets. I wrote headlines and subheads
and single-handedly made up every page.
Only after the last "take" had vanished into the pressroom
did I go home.
The next afternoon Posner was waiting in the office. He did
not mention the night s work. "From now on you re city edi
tor," was all he said.
I was the youngest and newest member of the staff and I was
taking the place of my vanished hero Holland. I thought of the
steady look under the green eyeshade, the quick way he made
up his mind when he hired me.
As city editor I would have to give orders to seasoned re
porters twice my age. The prospect made me uneasy, and I told
Posner so.
"Any man doesn t take your orders," he said grimly, "just let
me know."
Actually I was never to have any trouble of that sort. I never
asked a reporter to attempt anything I would not have been
willing to do. I appreciated their efforts and let them know. I
do not believe in withholding praise; I know how much it has
meant to me.
I felt badly about the acting editor I had replaced. I told
Posner I wanted him kept on. It was my first request as an edi
tor, and it was refused.
According to Posner the man had committed the unforgiv
able crime of letting his paper down. The guilty one shared his
opinion. When finally he showed up in the office Posner told
him he was through, that he had his ticket to go back home, and
added that he was making me city editor.
"You re making no mistake," the dismissed man answered.
"That boy Romulo is the best man you have on the staff. We ll
be hearing from him."
I Walked with Heroes 113
Before leaving he came to me and offered his hand. "I want
to thank you, Rommy. You saved the paper."
Only a true newspaperman could say that and not blame me
for being unable to save him his job.
Now that I was an editor I was given three-hundred-seventy-
five pesos a month, more than twice my former salary, and an
office of my own. I moved the desk that had become part of me
into it.
That triumph was only three weeks before this offer from
Quezon!
I was hesitating because of my new position and fine salary
on the Cable-News. I was its editor. On the new paper I would
be only a subordinate under Benitez.
I hated yielding that advantage. Above all I didn t want to
give up my beautiful new desk.
But Quezon was my hero and the leader of the new Philip
pines. I went with him.
Eight
POSNER understood my affection for my new Cable-News
desk. When I went over to the Citizen I took it with me. It was
with me through subsequent offices and jobs, and was lost with
the Herald when that building was bombed by the Japanese.
My first act as assistant editor of the new sheet was to ac
quire a green eyeshade, exactly like Holland s.
The cigar was outside of my circle of emulation. I have never
learned to like tobacco. As an editor I often shared a cigarette
at the invitation of a reporter but I never liked it.
The green eyeshade served several purposes. It made me feel
like an editor, it helped disguise my youth, and it served as a
shield against observation for I cat-napped. During the next
two years I would never get enough sleep. I worked nights only,
but the nights seemed never to end, and I would be up, some
times after an hour s rest, to start for school. I was never actu
ally tired, for I have always been able to fall asleep at any mo
ment and under any circumstances and the merest touch of
complete oblivion refreshes me.
It is a knack I share with the indefatigable Eleanor Roosevelt.
I have fallen asleep in foxholes and in theaters. I can fall asleep
in the midst of a sentence and waken perhaps five minutes kter
to carry the sentence through to its logical end.
So during these years when I was attending university classes
by day and acting as assistant editor on the Citizen at night I
napped at the breakfast table, in classrooms, and in the Senate
chamber. My most refreshing naps were taken at my desk in
the Citizen office, where propped over the copy I was presum-
114
I Walked with Heroes 115
ably editing, the green shield over my closed eyes kept the secret
of my slumbers from Benitez and the others on the staff. If any
one spoke to me I answered. At the ring of the telephone I was
the warhorse at trumpet call. I seemed to be able to keep track
of everything during these brief, saving periods of blackout.
By this time I had achieved some importance on the campus.
Because I was assistant editor of a paper founded by Quezon,
rumored to have in some way captured the attention of the
President, perhaps marked for advancement, the Philippine
Columbian Association elected me to membership. I had hoped
someday to be permitted to join this group of Filipinos who had
studied in the United States, all of whom were close to Quezon.
One by one he was absorbing them into the government.
Although only students who had studied in America were
eligible, an exception was made and I was asked to join as an
honorary member. I was deeply impressed by the honor because
the Association was growing in influence and I knew belonging
to it would be an advantage. It was winning a reputation for
wielding its power in righteous causes, and shortly after my
admission it found a cause worthy of its mettle.
I do not like remembering this episode, but I dislike even
more the fact that it ever happened, so I think it should be told
in foil
My experience in the Army and Navy Club had not been
forgotten. Other reports came from privately run country
clubs in and near Manila. Certain Americans in the Philippines
were developing a definite campaign of social ostracism against
Filipinos.
If this was permitted to continue we might find ourselves in
the position of the Chinese, who in a Chinese city were con
fronted at park entrances by signs forbidding the entrance to
the park of "dogs and Chinese."
As a newspaperman I was able to collect sufficient proof that
certain American representatives of democracy and freedom,
members of the Army and Navy Club and the Manila Polo Club
1 1 6 I Walked with Heroes
and the Baguio Country Club had entered into a gentlemen s
agreement to bar Filipinos from these places.
What sort of Americans were these who set themselves up
as superiors in a country they had usurped? I have made it my
business to find out. I have been studying this type of American
for close to half a century, and let me say now that the insults
proffered high-ranking Americans in alien lands can be laid di
rectly to his door.
The American who moves to another country and takes up
life there is at first strange and even a little uncertain. Then he
finds he is being regarded by the poorer natives with awe be
cause he comes from that rich, powerful country, America. He
has servants, perhaps for the first time in his life. If he is with
one of the services, he can buy through commissary channels
so that all necessities and many luxuries are his at little cost.
He is showered with gifts from the native-born who hope to
win his good will, his protection, or his friendship. He accepts
this largess as his due and is likely to refer to it as "loot."
An average businessman in his own country, who at home
belongs to Rotary, contributes to the Community Chest, goes
to church if his wife insists, and treats all around him with fair
ness and respect, finds himself in another country an overlord
among underlings.
In an impoverished land, where the power of his American
dollar rides over the poverty of the inhabitants, he becomes con
descending and even arrogant. He clings to his American
friends, his fellow countrymen in an alien land. They are like
exiles. He and his wife are inevitably inculcated with the prop
aganda of race snobbery.
When I was a very little boy and tried to puzzle my way
through this injustice I decided it was possible because the na
tive was not free. I still think that may be the right answer. Be
cause we Filipinos were not free, Americans who would have
small social standing in their own country could look down
upon us as "natives." A Filipino girl might come from a good
I Walked with Heroes 117
family and a cultured home, perhaps receive her education
abroad and be accustomed from birth to servants and luxuries
and gentle living, but no matter, she was native.
This is the triumph of the arrogant mediocre.
There have been of late reports of growing resentment
against America in the Philippines. Why in the Philippines! It
is everywhere in Asia. But in the Philippines the feeling is
against individual Americans rather than against the American
ideal. The Ugly American was not a myth.
I regret to say the worst offenders in the Philippines have been
members of the armed forces and their wives. Michael O Malley
was right when he pointed out that the man in uniform draws
lines against the rest of the world. Since the day I carried my
first racial hurt to that kind teacher I have worn the American
uniform and I know how insulated life can be for the army fam
ily. But it has done lasting harm in the Philippines and other
countries.
Humiliation is the one hurt that is never forgiven. We have
seen everywhere in the world counterwaves against past hu
miliations surging against white people. The tide is rising and
the waves will ride high unless leveled off by equality.
I felt these hurts and knew that a showdown was inevitable
between certain American factions in Manila and social leaders
among Filipinos. It came when I was in my freshman year at the
University. The chosen arena was the Country Club at the
beautiful mountain resort town of Baguio.
As I have said, the members of the Philippine Columbian As
sociation were our social and intellectual elite. They had studied
in America, where they had been royally treated by Americans,
and it was a shock to them to return to their own country and
find that some of the Americans living there were not willing to
meet them on equal terms. To these American-trained young
men this seemed an insult to the very spirit of democracy and
1 1 8 I Walked with Heroes
their first impulse was to withdraw in proud hurt, as so many
others in similar circumstances have withdrawn.
Then they decided to bring the matter into the open. First
there had to be definite proof of the injustice. A test group of
carefully chosen, presentable young men was appointed to
drive to Baguio and seek admission to the clubhouse. This group
of refined, cultured men, headed by Conrado Benitez, college
dean and editor of the Citizen, presented themselves at the door
of the Baguio Country Club and were turned away.
We formed a committee of Philippine Columbian Associa
tion members and carried the complaint to Quezon. The Senate
President heard us with flashing eyes and gave brief orders. We
were to locate the owner of the land on which the clubhouse
stood and order him to cancel the club s lease immediately un
less the ban against Filipinos was withdrawn.
It was our first victory in a race war in the Philippines, a war
of which few members of either race would know until it was
over. Quezon had led the siege.
The number-one gathering place for the elite in Manila was
the Manila Polo Club. Its membership was composed in the main
of American army officers, prominent American civilians, and
members of the white race who were Philippine born. This last
group included the Elizalde brothers, society men and polo
champions, and the Roxas and Zobel brothers all of Spanish
blood. Among the more enlightened members of this white
man s social citadel a movement was started to admit their Fili
pino friends to membership. Some of these I am glad to say were
high-ranking American officers. The move was stubbornly op
posed by the racial supremacists.
Again a test case was prepared. The subject chosen was
Manuel Nieto, and a better choice could not be found. Nieto
was of pure Spanish blood and every inch the aristocrat. He was
cultured, socially at ease everywhere, and would later serve as
our distinguished Ambassador to Spain. The most exclusive
doors in Europe and America have opened to him. But Nieto
I Walked with Heroes 119
at this time was aide-de-camp to Quezon, and because of this
close association with a Filipino leader he ranked in prejudiced
eyes as a Filipino.
His name was put up by the liberal group in the club. He was
blackballed to such an extent that someone remarked the count
was like caviar.
His sponsors, including such prominent members as Roxas
and the Elizaldes, immediately formed a committee of protest.
Other fair-minded members flocked to the cause, and within a
few days the largest and most important faction of the club
withdrew its membership. The Manila Polo Club was almost
deserted.
The withdrawn group reorganized and built another club
house on beautifully landscaped grounds in the outskirts of
Manila. It was named Los Tamaraos (the wild water buffalo).
The new club was finer and costlier and more desirable in every
way than the old, and the best polo players in the world brought
their teams there in dramatic competition. It was a club built by
and for the people of the Philippines, but Americans were wel
come there. It became the leading club and the social center of
Manila.
The deserted Manila Polo Club perished. And so, due to war,
has Los Tamaraos. It was destroyed by the Japanese. But a new
polo club has been built in Manila at a cost of two million dol
lars and it is the finest clubhouse in the Far East. Its members
are selected for their human values and not by the shade of their
complexions.
We cannot escape snobbery. We like associating with those
whose interests and intellectual attainments are on a level with
our own. But to decry by race is a crime against the democratic
and religious faith in which America and the Philippines have
developed. Race prejudice cannot exist in these or any countries
without lasting harm.
Now, on warm evenings in Manila, I watch groups of white-
clad, laughing young Filipinos, among them sometimes my own
120 I Walked with Heroes
sons, going in and out of the Army and Navy Club with never
a thought of being denied entry. The same freedom exists at the
Baguio Country Club. Then I know how greatly my world has
changed since we who were young as they are now fought the
battle of the country clubs in Manila, and I wonder how many
of these gay youngsters know they owe much of their social
freedom to a man named Manuel L. Quezon.
The progress of justice is slow and often painful. I know that
advances such as these will be brought about in the long run by
evolution. But young hearts can break in the waiting and young
pride suffer. I believe the advances are coming faster than ever
before. In spite of all I have seen of atrocities and war, of the
rape of Manila and the charnel place at Belsen, I still have faith
in the innate goodness of man. I believe that eventually man
rights every injustice he has wrongly committed.
I believe this, because I saw it happen in the Philippines. No
serious problem has ever arisen between the Philippines and the
United States that has not in the long run been settled to the
satisfaction of both countries. And there have been many prob
lems, as is inevitable when one country is established and the
other feeling its way.
The denial of the Filipino s right to display his own flag might
have created a serious problem. That has happened in other
countries, for example in Panama, where a revolution almost
started recently over America s refusal to permit the Panama
nians to display their own flag.
The majority of Filipinos felt badly about this rule, but they
waited patiently, hoping for the right to be restored; it took
time but the kw was changed and Filipinos were allowed to
fly their flag again.
Then there was Quezon s long-drawn-out fight with General
Leonard Wood, the American Governor General who was
firmly set against Philippine independence. Quezon carried his
complaints against Wood to Washington. They were under
going careful consideration when Wood s death ended the con-
Hessler Studio, Washington, D. C.
Mrs. Carlos P. Romulo photographed in front of General Romulo s portrait,
painted by the famous Filipino artist Fernando Amorsolo.
(Top left} General Rc-
mulo s mother, Mrs. Ma
ria Pefia de Romulo.
(Top right) General Ro-
mulo s father, Gregorio
Romulo, at his desk in
the governor s office, City
of Tarlac in Tarlac prov-
(Left) General Romulo s
family (front row, left to
right] Gilberto, Lourdes
(Mrs. Carlos Kipping),
Soledad (Mrs. Cesar
Bengzon), and Josefma
(Mrs. Alfredo Eugenio).
Standing behind are
Henry and Carlos.
President Manuel L. Que
zon s autographed por
trait. Inscribed to General
Romulo.
Members of President Quezon s War Cabinet, 1942-1944 (/<?/ to right),
Secretary of Information and Public Relations Carlos P. Romulo, Auditor
General Jaime Hernandez, Secretary of Finance Andres Soriano, Vice-
president Sergio Osmena, Colonel Manuel Nieto, President Quezon, not
shown, Resident Commissioner J.M. Elizade, Major General Basilio J. Valdes,
Arturo B. Rotor, Secretary to the President and the Cabinet.
Photo by Harris 6- Ewing, Washington, D. C.
^<%
.4
Romulo as colonel in the United States Army, 1943, aide-de-camp to General
AlacArthur.
General Romulo with
Vice-President Sergio
Osmena, August i, 1944,
when the latter took his
oath of office as president
of the Philippine Com
monwealth in the office
of the Department of the
Interior, after the death
of President Manuel L.
Quezon.
Photo by Harris & Ewing, Washington. D. C.
Philippine Department of Information and Public Relations
President Sergio Osmena, General Douglas MacArthur, and Brigadier Gen
eral Romulo on barge jusr before landing in Leyte, October 20, 1944.
Brigadier General Romulo makes an on-the-spot broadcast from the front
lines in Leyte over the Voice of Freedom, November i, 1944. Arthur Feldman
of the Blue Network is at his left. General Romulo reported to the people
daily over this station on the activities of the Philippine government and the
progress of the liberating forces.
Philippine Department of Information and Public Relations
On the bridge just before the landing in Leyte (left to right], Rear Admiral
Daniel Barbey, Major General Walter Kreuger, President Sergio Osmena,
Admiral Thomas C. Kinkaid, Brigadier General Romulo.
The day the reunited
Romulo family arrived in
Washington, D.C., from
the Philippines in April,
1945, after more than
three years of separation
from the General. (Left
to right) Mrs. Romulo,
Roberto, the General.
(Rear) Gregorio, Carlos
LI., Jr., and Ricardo.
General Romulo taking his oath of office as Philippine Ambassador to the
United Nations before President Manuel Roxas, August, 1946. (Left to right)
Vice-President and Secretary of Foreign Affairs Elpidio Quirino, President
Roxas, General Romulo, and Speaker Eugenio Perez.
General Romulo, Chief Philippine Delegate, signing the United Nations
Charter, San Francisco, 1945.
N. R. Farbman Life. Copyright 1945, Time, Inc.
President Ramon Magsaysay congratulating General Romulo after he con
ferred on him the Golden Heart Presidential Award, highest Philippine
decoration, September 13, 1954.
General Romulo, as President of the United Nations General Assembly in
1949, during the ticker tape parade with President Harry S. Truman, on their
way to attend the ceremony of the laying of the United Nations headquarters
building cornerstone.
General Romulo, as president, presiding over a United Nations Security
Council session, January, 1957.
Reprinted with permission of Leo Rosenthal, photographer
General Romulo, retiring
as president of the United
Nations General Assem
bly, bids farewell to
Secretary-General Dag
Hammarskjold.
Reprinted tcith permission of Leo Rosenthal, photographer
General Romulo with the Prime Minister of Indonesia, His Excellency Ali
Sastroamidjojo, on the way to the Asian- African Conference at Bandung,
Indonesia, April 18, 1955.
Ministry of Information of the Republic of Indonesia
ifttor,
The present residence of the Romaics, called "Kasiyahan" (Tagalog for "con
tentment") in Forbes Park, Makati, Rizal, Philippines.
General Romulo. Philippine ambassador, with Airs. Romulo celebrates his
birthday, January 14, 1953, at the embassy in Washington. With them
are their sons (left to right) Carlos LL Jr., Roberto, and Ricardo.
Associated Press Photo
The Romulos in their Washington residence on Garfield Street in 1956, the
year before Carlos LL, Jr., died. (From, left to right ) Mrs. Chloe Cruz Ro-
mulo (wife of Gregorio), Mrs. Virginia Romulo holding Miguel Antonio
(second son of Carlos LL, Jr.) , General Romulo with Carlos III in front of
him, and Mrs. Mariles Cacho Romulo (wife of Carlos LL, Jr.) . (Second row,
left to right) sons Gregorio, Ricardo, Carlos LL, Jr., and Roberto.
I Walked with Heroes 121
troversy. The long battle has been held responsible for Wood s
death and it certainly contributed to the ill health of Quezon.
Wood was followed in the Philippines by Henry L. Stirnson,
who saw the justice of the Filipino stand and took an attitude
entirely different from Wood s.
We protested when Nicholas Roosevelt was appointed as
vice-governor because he had written articles inimical to our
hopes for independence. Washington did not ignore our pro
tests and Roosevelt s appointment was withdrawn. Roosevelt
was sent to Hungary instead.
It has taken time to right some of the errors that have arisen
during the half-century of Philippine-American relationship,
but sooner or later justice has always won.
Errors are still in the making. Even now, in this enlightened
and dangerous time and despite all the tragic and disastrous
lessons taught the white race as the result of color prejudice
around the world, an attempt is being made in some American
officers clubs in the Philippines to renew the exclusion of Fili
pinos. American friends of mine, newly arrived in the capital,
have brought me reports of warnings given them within the
club by certain members.
"Don t start bringing any of your Filipino friends in here,"
they are told. "We don t want them."
That is the sort of talk heard in other countries where a
roused population has brought the question of blood lines to
pillage and murder. It was the sort of talk that made Japanese
anti-white propaganda palatable to Far Eastern people before
Pearl Harbor. It gave birth to the atrocities of the Chinese Reds
and the Mau-Mau of Kenya. It has lost great nations their place
in world leadership and sunk them to second- and third-rate
powers.
In the Philippines pride of race was forgotten by men who
fought side by side for the same ideals. Why at this time
a renaissance of hatred? What is behind it all?
Because there is this new difference we Filipinos are now
122 I Walked with Heroes
a free people. We are no longer under the jurisdiction of any
government save our own. We are a proud people, and we have
been taught by Americans to believe in that pride and in our
equality with all men. We were brought up under democracy.
We are a democracy.
To permit any members of any other race to debase our faith
in equality can only result in tragedy that will shock the world.
Cannot these renegades from democracy, no matter what
their wealth or social position or official rank, see that by paying
lip service to democracy, while entrenched behind the color
line, they are playing with lightning? Can they not be made
to understand that in their self-willed arrogance they are
strengthening the flood of propaganda pouring out over the
earth from Moscow?
While studying at the university and working as subeditor
of the Citizen I took on several extra jobs to fill my "spare" time.
I worked in the Bureau of Commerce and Industry, as its as
sistant chief of Intelligence Division.
At home my family no longer viewed my late hours and
overwork with foreboding. I throve on tension. Their attitude
changed to the pleasing one of mass admiration, tempered in
the cases of my brothers and sisters with well-intentioned teas
ing. What was I trying to do, lift my race and country to higher
estate single-handedly? Well, that was about it, although I
wouldn t admit it.
My father beamed as he read aloud every word of mine that
saw print. Sometimes he criticized or advised, and all he said
was sound. My grandmother in Camiling took unflagging in
terest in all I did. Her little Carlos had always had her faith and
her prayers; she was content. And my mother smiled her gentle
smile and said little, but I knew that her feelings ran deep.
My career so far had been extraordinary for one so young. I
remember thinking I was doing all right to be assistant editor of
a political sheet like the Citizen at a salary of more than three
I Walked with Heroes 123
hundred a month, and to handle a government job in my spare
time, while still a seventeen-year-old student.
Three hundred pesos was a great deal of money in those
days, and also, as the saying goes, think of the prestige!
So, basking in the approval of my family and fellows, I was
ill-prepared to face disgrace when it fell.
One of my jobs as Benitez assistant was supplying "filler"
for the Citizen. Seated nights before my cherished desk with
the green shade keeping my eyes from the overhead glare, I
scissored brief items from other papers and magazines to fit into
small leftover spaces in our columns.
One evening a small item in Life magazine caught my eye.
In a humorous, good-natured way it made fun of the draft. I
did not notice its meaning as much as its wit. I clipped out the
amusing item, tossed it into the "filler" basket, and forgot it.
As I said, the Citizen had been founded by Quezon and his
confreres in opposition to the Philippines Free Press. At this
time our rival was printing a series of attacks against Governor
General Francis Burton Harrison. Then, shifting its tactics, it
had widened its assault to take in Quezon.
The Philippine National Guard was friendly to Quezon and
resented the Press attacks. They set the wheels of justice rolling
against our rival. Its American editor had been brought into
court and was being threatened with deportation.
It was a touchy state of affairs. At this point my ridiculous
little item concerning the draft chanced to fit an empty space
in a Citizen column. Small as it was it fell with a deafening crash
into the chasm deepening between the two rival newspapers.
This was exactly what the American papers in Manila had
been waiting for.
They demanded retaliation, only it was not openly called
that, and being influential papers they were able to alert Quin-
tin Paredes, Attorney General and one of our best legal minds,
in their behalf.
Benitez and I knew nothing of this action and were pursuing
124 I Walked with Heroes
our editorial duties in our separate offices when I heard a howl
of anguish from his room. He had been visited by a dour in
dividual who bore two papers, one for each of us. I opened
mine and echoed Benitez howl.
"Rommy, what have you done now? " Benitez was frantic.
I? My conscience was clear as a babe s. I was certain it was
Benitez who had committed some abysmal crime. For it was be
fore our eyes in cold print: "Conrado Benitez and Carlos P.
Romulo, editors of the Citizen, are hereby summoned . . ."
And the ugly words leaped: "CHARGED WITH SEDITION."
Sedition? In our panic we couldn t even remember the mean
ing of the word. We had to look it up in the office dictionary.
**A charge of insurrection," it said, "of creating a commotion."
Well, that last part was true, but all the commotion was in the
Citizen office.
Hideous thoughts raced through my mind. I was certain that
my family and I and all our descendants were disgraced for
ever. Was I to go down in Philippine history as my country s
first subversive?
A frantic check at the Attorney General s office did nothing
to calm this fear. We learned they were rallying all their official
power in their determination to "throw the book" at us.
My worst moment was explaining to my father how it hap
pened that I, a governor s son, was to appear in court on a
charge of sedition.
After we learned the reason for our summons Benitez and I
looked up the wretched paragraph and studied it from all angles.
It still seemed like a harmless joke to me. Certainly I had no in
tention of poking fun at anything so serious as the draft act.
But the Attorney General and his legions rejected this point of
view and saw nothing amusing in the item. The dignified Be
nitez and I were going to be tried on one of the most serious
charges a government can bring.
Our futures were looking steadily blacker when help came
from an unexpected source. The Philippine Columbian Asso-
I Walked with Heroes 125
ciation came to our rescue. While I was still only an honorary
member I had made myself active in its interests. Benitez was
of course a member. The group stood by us and employed at
torneys for our defense. In their zeal they hired a redundancy,
which became apparent when we made our appearance in court
on that solemn morning. Present as our defenders were the
three foremost lawyers in Manila: Jorge Bocobo, Mariano H.
de Joya, and Francisco Delgado.
All were distinguished attorneys, in fact each was a stellar
legal light in his own right. So many lights were blinding before
the bar. There was a flare-up of competition as three brilliant
minds met head on.
Bocobo rose and made some sort of proposal to the judge.
Instantly De Joya was on his feet "I object." Delgado dis
agreed with both of them.
The prosecutors from the Attorney General s office sat back
and grinned. I leaned over to Benitez and groaned, "Here s
where we both go to jail!"
Fortunately for us at this point the judge took over. He re
fused further argument and summed up the case against us in
short order. He wound up by stating that in his opinion there
was no reason to question the loyalty and patriotism of either
of the two defendants.
Benitez and I were not only acquitted we were acquitted
with honors! But it was my first brush with the law and it left
a painful memory.
The Philippine Columbian Association having taken me
under its wing in this crisis was able to help me through an
other. I was about to graduate from the College of Liberal Arts
and I longed for a scholarship to America. One of the Associa
tion s members, Tomas Confessor, was Chief of the Intelligence
Division of the Bureau of Commerce and Industry. He spon
sored me. Confessor became a national hero during the Japanese
occupation. When asked to surrender to the Japanese he wrote
a letter that was a classic in loyalty and patriotism. His coura-
I Walked with Heroes
geous challenge and his aid to the resistance movement in the
hills won the admiration of General MacArthur and President
Quezon. When we returned to the Philippines he was made
Secretary of the Interior and was subsequently elected Senator.
I was terribly excited at the hope of a scholarship. Since
grammar school I had wanted to see America, and my interest
had grown more intense with the years. My father had often
told me that he would manage somehow to send me there.
"Someday you are going to America," he had said many times.
I had prayed for a way to manage on my own. Now Con
fessor provided the answer. The Bureau of Commerce and In
dustry, where I was working part time, was planning to send a
man to New York for special business training along American
lines. It was announced that someone working in the Bureau
would be chosen. Confessor recommended me to the Bureau
Director, Fidel A. Reyes, who in turn proposed my name to
Secretary of Commerce Dionisio Jakosalem.
Director Reyes was another national figure revered by the
Filipino people. It was he who as city editor of El Renacimiento,
my father s favorite paper, wrote a scathing editorial entitled
"Aves de Rapifia" (Vultures). The editorial attacked Dean C
Worcester, an American official. Worcester filed a libel suit
against the newspaper and won. Reyes and his chief, Teodoro
M. Kalaw, were convicted and both became national celebrities.
I was chosen to go to New York. I would be sent by the gov
ernment to Columbia University to study foreign trade service.
I had no idea what sort of future that might be. It was enough
that my dream of many years was to come true.
If this opportunity had not been given me, my father would
have found means to send me to study in the United States.
Filipino boys have been going abroad to study since 1860.
I had hoped to graduate from the University of the Philip
pines cum laude, but for that honor all "ones" were needed and
after examinations I found myself with a "two" in math and a
"three" in geology.
I Walked with Heroes 127
The low mark in math was no surprise, for I had long since
lost hope of receiving more than a passing grade in that hated
study. But I did have an alibi for the "three" in geology, which
was the final mark that robbed me of graduation laurels.
That class, with Randall Rowley as teacher, was held at the
somnolent hour of the afternoon between one and two o clock.
Now I was able to do without sleep any or all hours of the
remainder of the twenty-four, but that hour is siesta hour in
the Philippines and since babyhood I had devoted it to restful
napping.
While it had been many years since I had been able to devote
that period to sleep still the tendency remained, and no matter
where I might be at one o clock I would find myself nodding.
Geology had no charms to keep me awake, so I jerked and
dozed through that class only half-aware of what was going on.
I had worked sometimes all of the preceding night on the
Citizen s desk and I needed sleep. It was doubly unfortunate
that the class in a subject which I hated was held at that partic
ular hour. Rowley made no allowances for my need to sleep.
I had found that a drink of cold water would revive me tem
porarily. I decided on this measure one warm afternoon and
asked to be excused from class. Downstairs by the water foun
tain in the school corridor I met several girls I knew and joined
in their idle banter. As we were chatting a presence went past
and I recognized Professor Rowley.
I shot up the backstairs and into the classroom ahead of him.
When he came in he did not glance at me. Instead, looking over
the heads of the students, he began a stern pronouncement.
"There may be some among you," he said with meaningful
scorn, "who hold to the opinion that because one edits a news
paper one is qualified to leave the classroom whenever one
chooses and gossip with the girls downstairs, and still hope to
pass this course. Well, let me tell you here and now it can t be
done!"
128 I Walked with Heroes
"Any member of this class hoping to graduate will have to
prove his quality if he expects to get a passing grade."
It was a thrust direct and I took it to heart. I went to the
drinking fountain no more. I propped my lids open with my
fingers and stared at the pages and tried to remember what
geology was all about. It was meaningless. Try as I might I
simply could not catch up with the others, and so it was I
received that final and fatal "three."
Nevertheless I did graduate and was given my Bachelor of
Arts in March, 1918; and in July of that year I gave up my job
on the Citizen and left for the United States.
Once more I was leaving a love I had been confident would
last forever. The lovely girl I had squired through two years
of high school and two years of college was not to be forgotten.
On my last birthday I was sixty years old and among the hun
dreds of congratulatory messages one was from her.
I remember with deep tenderness my early romances. I be
lieve they recall me with equal affection, for they have all re
mained my friends.
There was something mysterious about my departure for
America. The night before I was to sail grief filled our home like
a fog. I could not understand why my family should be so
wretched when I was so exultant. They came to the pier to see
me off, and all were in tears except my mother, but even she
seemed terribly sad. It was upsetting to have my family behave
as though I were departing for the eternal shades.
"See here," I burst out finally, "this isn t a funeral, you know!
I m not going away forever. I m just going to the States to
study."
But they wept afresh and would not be comforted. Not for
another two months would I know the reason for their tears.
After I was settled in New York I received a letter from my
father. He wrote that on the day before I was to leave, word
had reached Manila of my grandmother s death in Camiling.
I Walked with Heroes 129
The family had entered into a conspiracy to keep the truth
from me, not wishing to spoil the happiness of my trip across
the Pacific my first journey away from home. Their tears had
not been for me, but for her.
In my furnished room near the Columbia campus I gave way
to belated grief. Camiling seemed pitifully far away. I remem
bered my grandmother as the dearly loved tyrant of my baby
hood, the teacher of my childhood, and always my adviser and
guide. I remembered her tiny, indomitable in her love, fierce
in her pride.
She had built that pride into me.
How her faded eyes had flashed when I told her I had been
chosen to go to America! She knew I would do my best to
absorb all of that wonderful country we had discussed so often.
I was in America to learn, for country and for race, and for
her.
When I had last visited her in Camiling my grandmother had
been frail and old, but I knew on that day of dark sorrow in
New York that a strong supporting pillar had fallen from my
life.
Nine
IN JULY, 1946, 1 flew back to Manila from the United States.
World War II was over. Japan had been defeated and the Phil
ippines set free. At last we Filipinos were to be awarded our
long-dreamed-of independence, promised half a century be
fore.
As Philippine Resident Commissioner living in Washington,
I was returning home for the ceremonies that would change our
country s status from that of a commonwealth to a republic.
Our plane dropped down on Wake Island to refuel. During
the brief stopover I walked along the beach to get the kinks
out of my legs. Rising out of the Pacific, close to shore, was the
battered hulk of a wreck a relic of war.
Somehow it looked familiar. I went to the water s edge and
was able to make out the name, faded by sea water and the years.
Lettered along the bow was Su wa Mam.
Time leaped back twenty-eight years. It was another July
day, 1918. I was young, slender, blazing with ambition and
hope, leaving Manila on that ship for my first visit to America.
Yes, I had been young on that day, and the Suiva Maru had been
young, bright with paint, and well-manned with neat Japanese
sailors. Now we had both suffered the rigors of war. The Su wa
Maru had served her time as a Japanese troop ship and gone to
her watery grave during the shelling of Wake Island.
In 1 9 1 8 I was thirty-five days crossing the Pacific. The jour
ney did not seem long then, although we left Manila in July
and I arrived in New York, via Canadian railroad, barely in
rime for the September enrollment at Columbia.
130
I Walked with Heroes 131
How many rimes have I crossed the Pacific since that maiden
voyage? My last Bight between Manila and San Francisco was
made in eighteen hours.
Recently my wife and I took our two small grandsons on a
flight to Manila. I doubt if the Pacific looked any wider to their
young vision than it did to mine when I was twice their com
bined ages and setting out to learn a new way of life in another
world.
What dreams were mine on that journey! And what were
theirs, for who reads the dreams of even the most beloved
child?
I doubt if a more fervent young idealist ever set sail for a dif
ferent land. My American teachers in the Philippines pictured
a Utopian country I had further tinted with my own rosy
imaginings. Everything I had studied about America and all
that I had heard from returned Filipino students served to en
large this image of the perfect country where all men were
friends since all men were free; all were well-fed, well-clothed,
well-housed, well-educated; all were equal.
I was firm in this belief, for had I not seen in my own short
lifetime the changes Americans had made in my own country?
In the past two decades under American authority the Philip
pines had made greater advances than under hundreds of years
of Spanish rule. One had only to remember the schools, the good
teachers, the opportunities given the young, the highways,
agricultural and economic advice, hygiene and medical care
a new generation was growing whose faces would never be
pitted by smallpox.
I believed in America as the golden land of the free because
the teachers who had come from that country had in every way
lived up to the standards they taught.
My father had been bitterly anti-American but he and his
Filipino friends had changed their point of view when America
lived up to its promise of justice for the people it had con
quered. As a small boy I had seen hatred turn to friendship and
132 I Walked with Heroes
resentments shift to new faith. As I grew, the dream of justice
had grown.
The intent of good will to all men was the basic concept in
the American mind. This we had been taught. This we believed.
When I won first prize at the university with the oration,
"My Faith in America," I had spoken every word from the
heart. I had kept that faith, and the prayer of someday seeing
America had been answered. Now, still in my teens, I was on
my way.
The Su wa Maru made a stop at Hong Kong. I left the ship to
send a telegram to my father, letting him know that so far all
was well. The clerk in the telegraph office was British. He ad
dressed me in Chinese which I could not understand.
"Fm not Chinese," I explained in English.
"Then you are Japanese." Not a query, a statement.
"I am a Filipino," I explained with as much dignity as I could.
He might never have heard the word, and Hong Kong is just
across the China Sea from the Philippines! His superior attitude
classified anything I might be or say as unworthy of his interest.
Just before the attack on Pearl Harbor I found myself again
in this telegraph office, filing the series of articles on the Far
East that were to win the Pulitzer prize. The British message
clerk might have been the same clerk who had looked down his
nose at me a quarter-century before.
"Where is the American who wrote this for you?" he asked,
glancing with contempt over the pages he had seen me write.
These men were small segments in the white pattern of Asia,
a pattern seeped through with violence and bloodshed. And
still those who believe in racial superiority will not learn!
But I was learning on this first flight from the nest that I as
a Filipino was not as important as I had been led to believe. In
my own beautiful country a Filipino had his human worth. Was
he a total blank outside the Philippines? The British message
clerk in Hong Kong gave me the first inkling that the Filipino
was an unknown entity.
I Walked with Heroes 133
We sailed on to Yokohama and again I went ashore. The
Japanese thought I was Chinese.
In Shanghai the Chinese spoke to me in Korean.
As we continued our slow junket across the Pacific an uneasy
suspicion grew in my mind that the Philippines was not the
center of the world. It had never before occurred to me that
the country I loved so much was a small and unimportant na
tion. Had its long fight for freedom and its heroes gone un
noticed in the world that we in the Philippines believed was
moving forward toward democracy?
The emotional jolts I had taken only made me the more
determined to take full advantage of the opportunities in Amer
ica. On my way across the Pacific I made up my mind to absorb
all America had to teach and more. I would show Americans
what a Filipino could accomplish when given a chance!
At last ambition was full grown and I knew what I wanted
of myself. A boy set out from Manila in July, and a man arrived
late in August on the west coast of America. I left the Su wa
Maru at Seattle to meet with her wreckage twenty-eight years
later off the shore of Wake Island.
The trip across Canada by train was disconcerting, for was
it possible that this vast stretch of Canadian country was equally
matched by the breadth of America? I had never dreamed of
such vastness, such empyrean space. No wonder North Ameri
cans were so expansive in their manners! And so generous!
Everything was vast beyond anything I had anticipated the
mountains, the land that stretched from horizon to horizon
without a roof to break its emptiness, the cities we flashed
through culminating in New York.
New York swallowed me up. I had seen it in pictures, read
of it, and heard of it all my life, but I was unprepared for its
reality. What other city on earth had a skyscraper to compare
with the Woolworth Building? I rode atop a Fifth Avenue bus
where have those buses gone f rom the Columbia campus to
134 I Walked with Heroes
Washington Square, as overwhelmed by wonder as I had been
at my first circus.
I braved the subway at Times Square and was hopelessly lost
underground. When I finally learned to "follow the green
light" and boarded the shuttle to Grand Central Station I felt
like a true New Yorker. I was enchanted to learn that the green
light indicator system was based on the labyrinth at Crete.
In the subway trains and elevators my lack of inches made
me a prisoner pressed between giants; I could see nothing but
backs.
On my first ascent in an elevator one of the passengers was a
lady. With great difficulty I removed my hat. It was promptly
crushed flat. After that, when I removed my hat in crowded
elevators, I held it at arm s length above my head.
Columbia University was as confusing in the beginning as
the city. The campus seemed endless and the buildings far
apart. Matriculation was difficult, and I spent days of always
dashing somewhere and always being late. At last my schedule
was in order and I knew where my classrooms were and life
became orderly. The names and faces of my professors became
familiar and I picked up a speaking acquaintance with some of
my classmates.
My lodgings were a furnished room on io6th Street, not far
from the campus. The furnishings were comfortable and the
landlady took particular pains to make me feel at home. In fact
I was shortly basking in the attentions paid me, without realizing
none of the other Columbia student roomers were being treated
as well. But they noticed, and one student living in the house
mentioned it to me.
"You ve certainly made a big impression on our landlady."
"Why is that?" I asked.
"She says your folks are big stuff back home that your
family is rich and titled."
I was puzzled. "What can have given her such an idea!"
He pointed out various objects in my modest room. "See
I Walked with Heroes 135
those? Silver. Damask, Everything with your initials and your
crest/
My face towels. My napkins. My personal supply of table
silver. All were embroidered or engraved with the initials
C.P.R., Carlos Pefia Romulo.
They were also the initials of the Canadian Pacific Railroad.
I had acquired these possessions on my train trip across Can
ada. In the dining car I had been impressed by the fact that the
initials on the silver and linen were my own. I asked the waiter
if I might keep one spoon as a souvenir of my journey.
He was a colored man and expansive.
"You just help yourself," he told me kindly. "Take all you
want of them. That s what they re here for."
I thought this very kind of the railroad, but tried not to be
greedy. Still it seemed foolish not to provide against possible
light housekeeping in New York. I chose a table service for
two knives, forks, several sizes of spoons and several nap
kins. The waiter hovered over me, helping me choose.
"There s lots of towels in the washrooms, too," he said.
"They got the same letters on them and you d better stock up.
Whatever is lost here is included in the company s profit and
loss. " He was so kind and helpful.
Everything I chose was splendidly marked with my initials
and if I remember rightly a "small but costly" British crown!
No wonder my landlady was impressed.
I hope the Canadian statute of limitations has run out!
During my first weeks at Columbia I made few friends. There
was no time to be wasted. My sins of omission had found me
out and I was paying for all the years I had turned my back on
mathematics. To prepare for foreign trade service one has to
know accounting, and in order to learn accounting one has to
know mathematics. I had to start from the beginning, studying
the math I should have learned years before, and work in
double harness while trying to keep up with current subjects.
I struggled with the mysteries of accounting while taking
136 I Walked with Heroes
those courses in math. It was a harrowing experience, and it
served me right.
In my first week at school something happened that puzzled
me. I met several Negro boys. They were pleasant, nicely man
nered young men from the South and I liked them. Sometimes
we walked from one building to another, talking together.
Then on a day when I was alone I was joined by two white
students I knew, who were also from the South.
One started right at it. "Romulo, about those black boys.
You know, don t you, you have to make up your mind? We
mean," he persisted, "are you going to be with us? Or with
them?"
Because this was America I was bewildered. It couldn t be
happening to me or they couldn t mean what they seemed to
say. So I made no answer at all and they walked away.
I had to find out. I hunted up another white student and
reported the conversation to him. I finished by asking, "Now,
what was that all about? "
His answer came quietly. "Don t you know we have a race
problem here?"
No, I had not known. Nothing I had heard from the lips of
the pensionados returned from America, nothing I had studied
or imagined had prepared me for this.
In my few weeks in America I had been well-treated. People
had gone out of their way to be friendly. Why was this hand of
friendship offered to me and withheld from that pair of well-
intentioned, nice-mannered, dark-skinned lads from the South?
It did not take me long to understand.
As the Filipino I was an unknown entity and a rarity. There
were few of my kind in the States, and perhaps not more than
a half dozen of us enrolled at that time at Columbia. The Negro
was known and and he was legion. The two colored students
were not suspect as individuals, but because they represented
a swelling pressure that was causing concern in white America.
Painfully, rny eyes were opened to the America I had
I Walked with Heroes 137
dreamed about so many years. Now, watching, I saw the
feathers of disillusion floating wherever I looked. Negroes
peered wistfully through the windows of even the poorest
restaurants and dared not enter. At our enlightened university
the Negro students sat together and apart in the rear of the
classrooms.
If this went on at one of the most progressive universities in
America what could conditions be in the South?
In my first bitterness I wondered if we of the Philippines had
not been reared on fairy tales. But no, I knew one thing: the
American teachers had been sincere. They had wanted to be
lieve as they taught us to believe, and basically what they said
was true.
I remembered their teachings and I suddenly thought of my
father reading to me when I was a little boy a newspaper ac
count of Booker T. Washington s visit to the White House.
President Theodore Roosevelt had invited the great Negro
educator there as his personal guest. My father had explained
that this was the first time a Negro had been a guest in the pres
idential mansion, and he my father thought the invitation
had been a splendid gesture on the part of the American pres
ident.
"This will help the fight for equality," my father had said.
And I, a child, was thinking that since equality was already
the way the people lived in America, why should it be fought
for?
Now as a Columbia student I knew the fight was still going
on and I felt let down and unhappy. But giving way would not
help. And the ideal was still before us.
So I hunted up the two white students who had spoken
to me.
"You have asked me which side I am on," I told them se
riously. "You say you want me to be with you. And I want to
be with you. I like you. But I like those other fellows too. Why
can t I be on both sides?"
138 I Walked with Heroes
I have no idea why it worked, but it did. From that time on I
was friendly with all the racial groups on the campus.
The incident taught me that if I kept my head and my temper
that I could remain friendly with all.
It was a valuable lesson. It has helped me along my way. One
need not bellow to be believed. Ears seal automatically against
anger, and unreason takes over when argument becomes tirade.
In the same category is the use of swearing by way of empha
sis. I seldom swear, because I have great respect for the power
of words and it seems to me that profanity lacks the power to
express intelligently. Anything I wish to say can be expressed
in my limited vocabulary, and to me foul words are the refuge
of the drunk, the hysterical, and the inarticulate.
The pinprick of doubt had assailed me, but I was still in love
with America and still happy at Columbia University. I had
admired and envied the pensionados who had been the first
from my country to study at this great American school, and
now I was one of them. The half-dozen or so Filipino students
at Columbia were all there as the guests of the American gov
ernment. Curiously enough, while we were all friends we did
not herd together. We were in America to understand it and we
liked knowing Americans.
There were so many facets to this country. I had been told
only one side the theory, the gleam. I refused to believe I had
been deceived. My innate sense of well-being kept me the in
curable optimist. I was going to discover the best in America,
and the best was everything I had hoped it would be f or me.
In my passionate determination to see the finer side I found
all I had expected in material achievement. There were good
railroads, fine hotels, an efficient postal system, a plenitude of
cars, schools in the smallest hamlet, and prosperity everywhere.
On my free days I walked through midtown Manhattan, the
core of sophisticated New York, and I was exultant.
"This is life," I told myself, "in a nation that has reached its
I Walked with Heroes 139
full development. Someday we will live like this in the Philip
pines."
Then I found my way by chance into the slums of the great
city. Here was a side of New York and America never described
in the schoolbooks. I had pictured everyone in this magical
country as being well-housed and well-fed. Was everything we
Filipinos had been taught to accept as our ideal only an illusion,
and could equality never be achieved?
My doubts grew through the years when I visited Washing
ton, the brain center of the United States, as the guest of my
father s friend and my guardian in America, William Howard
Taft. He had been Governor General of the Philippines and
was now Chief Justice. His son Bob was my particular friend.
Governor General Taft was highly esteemed in the Philippines.
It was he who proclaimed American policy in the Philippines as
"the Philippines for the Filipinos." His name is enshrined in the
Filipino heart.
In Washington I was even more shocked by the dreadful
slum areas. We had depressed areas in Manila but I, as a student,
had never seen them. And somehow poverty is never flagrant
in a tropical zone. Our poor wore rags, but the rags were
clean. The poorest mother could forage food for her children
a basket of fruit, a bit of fish from the sea.
I could not understand why a country as rich as America
would permit such conditions to exist.
As I adjusted to classroom routine tension eased and I began
to feel at home. Even the hated math became easier and the laws
laid down for keeping accounts less confusing. I kept my ach
ing head over these studies the sooner to be rid of them, for
after they were behind me I promised myself at least one year
of the subject I loved most: comparative literature. No matter
what career I might enter, the writer in me would never be lost.
I knew now words would be the base of all I might attempt.
The books I had read, my father s guidance in my reading, yes,
140 I Walked with Heroes
all the way back to my grandmother s stories, these contained
the words that had fed my imagination and my ambition. With
words I could move men and mountains, I could carve into any
design I wished my future and my world. With words I could
develop my personality to its fullest and help to bring recogni
tion to the Philippines.
It was a pretty large order for a small student in a large,
strange country, but I was confident. Make of it what you will.
Before the first month ended I had joined the debating so
ciety. I took part in the debates for the next four years. It was
a jolt to receive as my first subject: "Should capital punishment
be abolished?" I had drawn that question word for word out of
a hat when applying for admission to my first debating society
in Manila. The question had followed me halfway across the
world. I did my best with it.
Gradually I was beginning to convince myself with the many
arguments I was obliged to collect advocating the abolishment
of the Mosaic demand of a life for a life.
It was on the debating platform that I first saw into the kindly
inner heart of America. I noticed that when I pled my side of
the argument I was soundly applauded, and realized finally that
this approval was not for my subject, but for a young man from
Asia who was tackling a large question and in English. Wher
ever we debated I heard this applause, even when my side failed
to win. It was a gesture of kindness, the democracy I had ex
pected to find. But why, if given me, why not to all?
Perhaps they did not know that the English in which I tried
to express my thoughts was the speech of my childhood. I had
learned its rudiments from the Baldwin Primer of my American
sergeant in Camiling. I had been reared on American publica
tions and English classics, and I had a great respect for the
art of human speech. English was but one of the flowering
branches, one of the best.
Because of this respect I regretted then, as I do now, the slip
shod vernacular into which so many Americans were lapsing. It
I Walked with Heroes 141
is part of the relaxed pattern of the times and one notices it all
over the world. In Manila one hears our students, "Gotcha!
Waddayaknow!" Even when they are speaking in Tagalog the
carelessness is there.
I regret this breakdown after the centuries spent in the de
velopment of exquisitely precise human expression. It seems a
pity that a trend toward jargon should be permitted to destroy
the treasure handed down by generations of great authors and
poets.
Now that I have studied and spoken English for more than
fifty years I realize I have but scratched its surface. Language
has always seemed to me man s most marvelous gift. It enables
him to communicate. It ties his life to others. It has lifted him
from his place somewhere close to the apes to a position near the
angels.
In my case speech has been my treasure chest, and everything
I have achieved in life has been won by words. (Even when I
persuaded my wife to become my wife, how I dipped into my
supply of eloquence then! )
I began making friends on the campus and girl students were
among them. I liked girls and I missed girls, my sisters and their
friends and my own girl friends, particularly the one I had left
at the university in Manila, certain I would never forget. They
had accustomed me to feminine companionship and I missed it.
But I was shy about asking my male friends the all-important
question: How does one go about making a date with an Amer
ican girl?
After three months as a dateless bachelor student I decided I
had to figure this out for myself. A man had to be brave.
I chose my victim with great care. She was pretty, but not
formidably so, and had an easy manner that seemed encour
aging. Also, and for some reason this seemed helpful, Anna was
from Brooklyn.
I ambushed her between classrooms and struck a conversa-
142 I Walked with Heroes
tion, which to her may have seemed casual but which was my
opening gambit in a carefully plotted campaign.
Did she like the theater, I threw in carelessly.
She did indeed.
So did I! (Hopefully.)
Had she seen Frank Bacon starring in Lightnirf on Broad
way?
No, regretfully, but it was one of the plays she wanted to see.
Then I threw my all into the ring. If I could get tickets to this
sold-out attraction would she go with me?
She would. It was as easy as that. I had my first date in
America.
The next problem was to get tickets. My allowance was not
exactly lavish. After recovering from the shock of the cost of
two tickets to a Broadway hit I found myself left with exactly
eleven dollars to splurge on the rest of the evening. This would
have been a lavish sum in Manila, but I had an idea New York
was going to expect more of me and made discreet inquiries
among the more sophisticated men on the campus.
It was the consensus of opinion that a popular night club was
a nice place to wind up an evening. I stowed that fact in my
mind and went forth to my first appointment with romance.
My date had suggested that since she lived in Brooklyn I was
to wait for her at the top of the subway entrance at Fourteenth
Street. I was prompt and so was she. Since it was some distance
to the theater where Lightnin* was playing I insisted on our tak
ing a taxi.
The fare I remember was eighty-five cents. At the theater en
trance I handed the driver one of the two bills in my pocket and
told him to keep the change. His effusive thanks would have
roused the suspicions of anyone more accustomed to the habits
of New York cab drivers.
We enjoyed the show and after the curtain fell I impressed
Anna with my casual suggestion that we drop in at a night club.
In the men s room at the club I dove into my pocket to rip the
I Walked with Heroes 143
attendant and found one lone dollar bill. I had grandly pre
sented the cab driver with my ten dollars. No wonder he had
been so grateful.
Anna was waiting at the table studying a large menu. "Cover
charge" was printed boldly on its front. Until I saw her there I
hadn t made up my mind what to do. Then I thought of the old
adage: when in trouble tell all. So I showed her my dollar bill
and told her.
She laughed, while my face grew redder and redder. Then
she opened her purse. "It just happens that I have ten dollars
with me, Carlos, and I ll lend it to you."
And that is what she did, slipping the bill to me under the edge
of the tablecloth. We had a fine time and I borrowed the money
to repay her the next day. So I learned why American girls were
considered good sports.
I made more and more friends, on and off the campus, and
there were no more empty evenings and weekends. But still
there was a loneliness. Comradely casual dates with girls were
not enough. I missed my family. I missed my girl. I had "gone
steady" for four years in Manila and I craved a permanent love.
I fought this longing for months. I told myself I was in Amer
ica on a mission and had no time for girls. I was here to help
make the Filipino known.
Lack of that recognition was my greatest personal disap
pointment since leaving the Philippines. I had traveled and
found no one who knew of or was interested in my country.
Wherever I went, in New York or Washington, I was still being
taken for a Chinese.
But in the Philippines, we were of importance as Filipinos.
We were not to be classified with other Asians. We were citi
zens living under the American flag.
For all I experienced and heard in the United States we Fili
pinos might never have fought and lost or even existed. Amer
icans knew of Admiral Dewey, not of Aguinaldo. If they ever
thought of the Philippines it was as a collection of small islands
144 I Walked with Heroes
in the Orient that had been claimed by Admiral Dewey in a
contest nobody could understand.
I had left a country I knew was as beautiful and vital as any
in the world, and I had traveled in China, Japan, and Canada
to the United States, to be greeted like an arrival from Mars.
Somehow I was going to make the Philippines known to the
world. Relations had to be improved on an international scale,
and while I was nobody, an alien freshman lost in a great Amer
ican student body, I determined to do my bit.
To begin any sort of crusade one must find a flag to wave and
to follow. I found an emblem in Rizal Day. That day was near-
ing. In the Philippines it would be commemorated everywhere
in honor of the country s greatest hero. There it corresponds to
Washington s birthday in America.
But who in America had heard of Rizal? This was the "gim
mick" I needed. I could begin by showing the Columbia stu
dents that my country also had its heroes.
The campaign began with organizing the scattering of Fili
pino students on the campus and promoting a Rizal Day at
Columbia University. Earl Hall on the campus was chosen for
the celebration.
There were groups of Filipinos living in New York and
Brooklyn. Each group had planned separate celebrations on
Rizal Day. We brought them together into one common group,
for a major ceremony*
Once organized, we were a cross section of Philippine life.
We were students, professional men, laborers, waiters, and en
tertainers. In Manila we would have had little in common. In
New York we had Rizal.
Rizal Day was a big success. American and Filipino notables
were on the platform and Filipino singers and dancers on the
program. Among the singers I remember best the popular star
Nemesio Ratia and his dramatic rendition of Henley s "In-
victus."
"I am the captain of my soul.
I Walked with Heroes 145
I was at the right age to be transported by those words.
Arsenio N. Luz presided as chairman of the day. He was a
newspaper editor from Manila who was taking a postgraduate
course at Columbia.
I believe Dr. Nicholas Murray Butler, President of Columbia
University, made a speech, and I know I made one, because
after the ceremony a young American girl in the audience came
up to the platform to congratulate me. She was a fair-skinned
Saxon type with a serious, gentle charm that sent all my resolu
tions about having no time for dalliance flying out of the win
dow. I knew then how lonely I had been in America. We spoke
briefly, and I knew I would not be lonely again.
I might have won higher honors at Columbia if it had not
been for that girl. On the other hand I would have missed a lot
of happiness. Every minute I could steal from my studies we
were together. She would come to my room and wait while I
studied with the door left open for the benefit of my landlady,
who kept a sharp eye on the extracurricular activities of her
roomers and it was enough for both of us that she was there.
The finest way to discover a country or learn a language is
through love.
Her presence made even the detested bookkeeping bearable.
Slowly I was developing a concept of the nature of mathe
matics, but I would never learn to like numbers. To this day I
detest them.
She was not a student* Latin- American friends had chanced
to bring her to the Rizal celebration. She had a deep interest in
the Orient. I helped her to understand my world as she in turn
widened my understanding of America.
My happiness in finding an American sweetheart did not
blind me to the discrepancies I continued to meet between
American belief and American practice. I met with conditions
that left me in a state of despair, for if such injustices were per
mitted in a country that exemplified democracy what hope for
the future anywhere?
146 I Walked with Heroes
So many things were calculated to cut down the esteem or
hopes of someone considered inferior by reason of color, and
the most shocking part was that these acts were often carried
out by people who regarded themselves as the cream of Chris
tian America.
For example, during my second year at Columbia a friend of
my father s came on a visit from the Philippines, and I wished
to entertain her in some distinctive New York way. By this time
I considered myself quite a boulevardier in the big city and
without too much trouble was able to secure good seats down
front for The Zieg field Follies. As we settled down to enjoy
the show I was proud of my companion. She was older than I
and a woman of great distinction in the Philippines, where she
was one of our first women doctors. Dignified, beautifully
gowned, with dark hair and clear skin, she was outstanding
among the women seated around us. I noticed several looking
at her and thought their stares were admiring and well-justified.
During intermission some of our neighbors left their seats.
My companion and I sat on, lost in gossip about Manila.
A hand fell on my shoulder. An usher was leaning over me.
"The manager wishes to speak to you in his office."
I excused myself and followed the boy to the front of the
theater. The manager was waiting. He seemed nervous. "You
are a student?" he asked.
"Yes, at Columbia."
"Chinese?"
"I am a Filipino," I answered, as so many times before. "Now,
what is this all about? "
He was deeply embarrassed. "I am sorry to say this," he stam
mered, "but there have been complaints. Some people sitting in
the same row with you they say you are with a Negress."
I was sick I was so angry. That black, curly hair of my
friend s that was all they had to complain about! Her skin was
as light as any other woman s in the row.
As calmly as I could I explained my guest s honorable position
I Walked with Heroes 147
in our country and the fact, which was true, that she was in
America at the invitation of a high-ranking government official
When I mentioned his name the manager paled. Seeing the im
pression made, I ordered the manager to telephone this official
at once, and gave him the private telephone number in Wash
ington. Washington would know how to deal with this insult,
I added. This was all true and my indignation was very real.
The manager begged me to return to my seat and forget that
anything had been said. I did not want to go back, but I could
not desert my guest. To spare her feelings I had to return. She
wanted to know why I had been called away and I muttered
something; she did not press me.
That night the long-stemmed Follies beauties pranced for
me in vain. I did not enjoy the rest of the show. I spent my time
scowling at the laughing faces around me. They all looked fair
and kind. Which among them, I wondered, had wanted to
humiliate the fine, selfless woman at my side, who was their
country s guest at the invitation of one of their leading officials?
How dared they!
How I longed to rise up in the aisle and demand to know
which among them was guilty! But I could not make an issue of
the incident for my friend s sake and for America. I hope she
has never learned of such happenings in America, because she
admired its ideals as much as I.
What has struck me hardest during my life in the United
States is the difference between the American in his own coun
try and the American abroad. He becomes another person in
another country.
Many non-American friends of mine have commented upon
this. They visited America and are welcomed with open arms.
They return to their own countries and the Americans there
are unfriendly. Expatriate Americans stick together. Mutual
fear of criticism makes them afraid to entertain the foreigner as
freely as they would in their own homes in America.
I was to puzzle over this schizoid attitude for many years be-
148 I Walked with Heroes
fore I began to understand. My opinions on the sub j ect were not
personal I realize I have nearly always been the exception to
the rule. There are many reasons for the fact that no barriers
have been raised against me. One was my arrival in New York
when there were so few Filipinos in the United States that they
had not raised the uneasy suspicions of the white supremacists.
Another factor made me the exception. If barriers have
melted before me it is because I have refused to admit they were
there. I like everyone, I know my own value and that of others.
I like all kinds of people and respect all opinions. And if my
trust fails I do not brood over the failure.
My thanks for all time go to my teacher Michael O Malley,
who knocked the chip off my shoulder before prejudice had the
chance to sink in.
I do not hold with bitterness. I learned early never to permit
myself the luxury of wanting to get even. If I am hurt, and I am
easily hurt, I may weep at the injustice done me but I make my
self forgive and forget. I envy nobody. I hate no one. I am
happy when my friends succeed and I delight in my own suc
cesses. I have always worked hard, and I have been too busy to
cherish ill will.
One day a friend of mine asked me if someone he heard speak
ing ill of me was my enemy. I told him that possibly he was my
detractor but certainly not my enemy. Enemy to me implies
mutual hatred and I could not find it in my heart to hate anyone.
This has been my philosophy, and it keeps me content and
industrious and fond of my fellow men. It kept within reason
a feeling that developed during my four years at Columbia a
growing discontent or disappointment in America.
Even as a student I recognized the need for change. Some
thing was terribly wrong. The Negroes I saw in New York and
Washington were submissive, shoved together in slums, a de
pressed people huddled together in freedom s land the coun
try held up to us in Asia as the land of the free. Men of dark skin
were afraid to speak the truth, afraid to protest against outrage.
I Walked with Heroes 149
They hung their heads when reproved. Untaught, underpaid,
and underprivileged, they walked softly and in fear. Only in
their own ghettos did they dare lift their voices.
I saw these black hordes in their slum areas and wondered
what crimes they had committed save that of being born to the
Negro race.
But I walked freely. I was asked everywhere. America the
beautiful was being beautiful indeed to me. It was for the de
prived I suffered and felt shame, not for what they were, but for
the way they were treated.
My interest in politics grew. Only politics could make Amer
ica, and in time die Philippines, right as countries should be. A
new hope rose in the world. It was the League of Nations. I
looked on that as the rising flame of freedom. I had a new hero
Woodrow Wilson.
My hero-worship made a personal dilemma in my life, for it
was difficult to have a close association with the Tafts and be
their frequent house guest in Washington while openly wor
shiping at the Wilson shrine. But I passionately admired Wil
son, most of all for his dream of writing a never-ending peace.
On my Washington visits I went to hear him speak again and
again. His enemies were mine, and I despised them, I am cer
tain, far more than Wilson ever could with his cool, temperate
mind.
Wilson s picture was on our classroom walls in the Philip
pines, close to Washington s and Rizal s, for it was Wilson who
had signed our Jones Act, our first giant step on the road to
freedom.
In his fight for the League of Nations Wilson was the voice
of a world that would be free. I prayed for its success, and for
him.
Henry Cabot Lodge was fighting Wilson. I shunned Lodge as
intensely as if he had done me a personal wrong. Couldn t Lodge
see that in fighting the League he might be responsible for the
deaths of millions?
150 I Walked with Heroes
The League was defeated. But the hopes it had raised re
mained to haunt the conscience of the world. Someday, I was
certain, there would be a new League of Nations. There would
have to be. The tides of evil rose as man became more lethal.
From the time of Wilson s defeat I had my own burning per
sonal dream of a league, a world organization, wherein all peo
ples would band together in a common cause against man s
greatest enemy war. I even drew vague sketches of the build
ing that would house those delegates of the nations. It would be
a tall cathedral reaching to the sky.
How fortunate am I among men, for that once penciled
dream, now a reality, is the first thing I see when I come by
plane over New York City.
I was not the sole dreamer, I knew later. Men all over the
earth were sketching that dream building.
If only Woodrow Wilson had lived to see it there. If he had
won the League for the nations, how many lives, how much
torture, how much unleashing of world hatred might we have
been spared! If the United Nations had existed in Wilson s day
and seventeen nations had said to Kaiser Wilhelm, "Stand
back! " his soldiers would never have goose-stepped into Bel
gium. If Mussolini had been warned to stay out of Africa, if
Hitler had been reprimanded by all the free nations those human
horrors could never have wreaked their manic vengeance on
the world.
Let those who scoff at the United Nations think that over! It
has its faults, but what better court has man devised?
Wilson came back to America, ruined, defeated, ill. Rumors
of his physical and mental breakdown were sent flying out of
Washington. Hatred does not last with me, but its impact is
sickening when I am in its throes. I have never despised any
group of men as I did that committee of Senators who visited
Wilson s home to check the rumor, insisted upon entering his
bedroom, and even lifted the blankets of the bed where he was
I Walked with Heroes 151
lying to see if the report that the President was paralyzed was
true!
One of the profoundly touching experiences of my life took
place in the Military Institute at Staunton, Virginia, at the
Woodrow Wilson Centennial ceremonies. I was guest speaker,
and I stood in a circle drawn on the platform. Within that circle
Woodrow Wilson had stood, when, before his oath-taking as
President of the United States, he made the pronouncement
that he would favor the independence of the Philippines.
He was the first American president to make that promise.
Because of that pledge, his signing of the Jones Act, and his
services on behalf of freedom, he is a hero in the Philippines.
At last I had struggled through the mathematical torments
and was free to return to comparative literature. I reveled in
those classes. I did my best work in them. I was fortunate in my
literary adviser, for he was Carl Van Doren.
Years later, his brother Mark, the poet, and I would receive
honorary degrees together from Adelphi University in New
York City.
My years in America ended in the spring of 1922. 1 would
leave Columbia with my M.A. My American sweetheart and I
had our plans all made.
We would be married in New York directly after the grad
uation exercises. After a brief honeymoon visit to the Philip
pines we would return to New York. I would find work on a
newspaper.
What a different course my life would have taken if we had
carried out those plans.
We were blissfully certain of our future. Whatever differ
ences might have arisen between us I am certain none would
have been based upon race. There was never any sense of dif
ference between us and there could have been none. I felt fully
prepared for life and marriage. I had grown up during the uni
versity years.
152 I Walked with Heroes
Our idyl was interrupted by the burly but un-Cupidlike fig
ure of William Howard Taf t. I do not know how the Chief
Justice of the United States learned of our modest little ro
mance. Perhaps as my guardian in America he kept a closer
watch on my personal affairs than I suspected. For no sooner
were Commencement Day ceremonies over than my landlady
ushered into my room a dignified emissary from Washington.
It was one of Governor Taf t s secretaries, and he let me know
at once his sole purpose in coming to New York was to pay me
this visit.
"The Chief wants to see you in Washington," he said.
"What for?" I asked. I was startled and uneasy.
"He wants to see your college reports."
"But I have graduated!" I waved before his eyes the magic
diploma for which I had toiled four long years. "See? Master
of Arts!"
He was not impressed. "How soon are you leaving for
home?"
I began to understand. I said coldly, "As soon as I am married
I shall return to the Philippines with my wife."
He showed no surprise, although nothing had been said be
fore about any girl in my life. Of course he had no need to ask.
I found out later he had combed my list of friends for informa
tion. I had been undergoing a thorough investigation while be
lieving myself alone with my love.
The aide left without comment, and the next morning I re
ceived a telephone call from Washington. "Carlos, I hear you
have graduated," Governor Taft said. "Congratulations! Why
don t you come to see us in Washington and return to the
Philippines from here?"
"I have planned ..." I began, but he cut in with a sharply in
cisive, "Come anyway! I want to talk to you."
It was an order. I was on the next train for Washington.
Taft was to me what modern writers would describe as a
"father image." His family was my family in America. Benign,
I Walked with Heroes 153
paternal, and kindly, he kept an eye on my reports and was al
ways interested in knowing how I was getting along.
The Chief Justice was a formidable person to face. His steely
eyes probed like fine wires.
"So you re planning to be married."
"Yes sir." I had never been meeker.
"Have you talked this over with your parents?"
I admitted I had planned to do that after the marriage. It was
to be a surprise. . . .
My guardian waved my explanations away. "I think it is
your duty to go back to Manila. Consult with your parents,
stay with them for a while, talk things over, and think it over.
Now, how soon are you leaving?"
I was caught off guard. "Well, I must see about getting my
tickets, and . . ."
His voice had the ring of steel. "Your tickets are already
bought. You have a reservation on the train leaving New York
tomorrow morning for San Francisco. The train connects at
San Francisco with the boat leaving for Manila. Your cabin on
that boat is reserved. Have a good trip."
William Howard Taft looked soft, at a distance. The hand
he shook in farewell ached for hours.
He was my guardian and I had to obey him. I returned to
New York glazed with suffering. My love and I had only one
evening left for the most sorrowful parting since Romeo s from
Juliet.
We walked Riverside Drive for hours, my girl and I.
Through our tears we saw the moon washing the striated Pali
sades across the water and vowed all the old vows, "by yon
constant moon." Despite our grief we were certain love like
ours could never die.
Still in a daze of sadness I boarded the ship at San Francisco.
I had looked forward to this triumphal return home. Now I re
member nothing of that trip across the Pacific except the nights
when I walked the decks alone, melancholy as Hamlet, and
154 I Walked with Heroes
lifted my suffering face at intervals to that same "constant
moon."
When a year later I returned to Washington and by chance
met my lost love again we were as aloof as if newly introduced.
During that year our minds and hearts had changed. She had
found other interests and I had met the girl I would eventually
marry.
"Go home and think it over," Taft had ordered during that
harrowing interview one year before.
I had gone back to Manila and met Miss Virginia Llamas.
Several years later I introduced my wife to Senator Robert
Taft and he beamed on our happy young faces, and then gave
me one of his shrewd, keen glances. "Well," he said, smiling,
"don t you think Dad was right?"
How right he had been! And how wise. I will always be
grateful to him. I had thought him a monster, void of sympathy
and romance. He had seen me as I was, immature and infatuated
and in the throes of a puppy love that had seemed deeper be
cause of my loneliness in a strange knd. He had realized that
the companionship my girl and I had shared on the Columbia
campus was not the material of lasting love.
Now after almost thirty-seven years of marriage I know I
could never have been happy with any woman other than the
one I married. William H. Taft was indeed my benefactor.
As each of my boys has approached manhood I have told him,
"Don t marry right away! Look around you, meet girls, and
then, when you finally choose the one you know is right, be
faithful!"
A successful marriage is like a successful business and must be
based upon lasting understanding and complete honesty. Race,
I am confident, will be of increasingly less importance in this
changing world, but the advantages of a shared background and
ideals will never be lost.
Ten
THERE is no better medicine for a broken heart than new in
terests. Back in Manila I found that four years in America had
added luster to my reputation as a young man who was going
places.
I took up life at home and found it good to be with the family
again.
My father was now assistant director of the Census Bureau.
He had worked long and well in his country s service and this
was actually an honorary job.
I found him little changed and my mother not at all. If his
motions were slower than before that made him more like other
men. He had always been ultrarapid in gesture and speech*
These were good days for my father. His two oldest sons were
through school and he took pride in work well-done. My older
brother, Henry, had just graduated from Santo Tomas medical
college. Two weeks after my return from Columbia my father
hung my brother s brass sign before his door, stepped back, and
looked at it with an expression of pure happiness.
DR. ENRIQUE P. ROMXJLO
I know how happy my father was on that day! He had given
my brother and me the best he had to give and we had done
what we could to show our appreciation.
The next day I found him crawling up the stairs, his face con
torted with anguish. He was operated on at four that afternoon.
The pancreas had ruptured. By three o clock the next morning
he was gone.
155
156 I Walked with Heroes
We had been a united, loving family. Now the center of our
life was missing. My mother remained dry-eyed but I knew her
heart was forever empty. My sisters wept and would not be
consoled. I remembered how our father had tried to curb our
tears and his own, and I fought for control and tried to silence
my sisters.
"Restrain yourselves," I begged them. "He always wanted
us to control our emotions."
But they could not, nor could I. We were like our father and
this was the first true heartbreak of our lives.
My mother accepted widowhood with dignity. She carried
on in the home and kept her children about her. I stayed on
with her and set about the business of active living. Jobs were to
be had for the taking. In my first enthusiasm I took all that were
offered.
If only my father had lived a few more weeks! Soon after he
left us I was appointed Assistant Professor of English at the
University of the Philippines. How happy that would have
made my father, who had always been the teacher and guide at
heart. He would have been happier still at another appointment
I received at the same time, for I was made one of Quezon s
secretaries.
Now I was one of those I had so envied as a cub reporter, the
secretaries who were the confidantes of Quezon. I had won
dered how they reached their positions close to power, and now
I knew.
I had seen what a man in Quezon s position could achieve. I
had admired him without reservation. From my new position,
close to the heroic statue I so admired, I would learn in time to
see the defects in the stone.
As Assistant Professor at the university and private secretary
to Quezon, I would be in my classroom from nine to twelve and
from two to four, then in Quezon s office until eight or nine in
the evening, depending on the lateness of the Senate session.
There were partial evenings free, and they were soon filled.
I Walked with Heroes 15?
Six months after my return from America I became assistant
editor of the Herald, which was the first Philippine daily
printed in English. Benitez was editor, so our positions were
the same as they had been on the Citizen. Now again on the
Herald we supported Quezon. That was all right with me. I
believed in Quezon and his policies with all my heart.
Now I was holding down three jobs and had three salaries. I
collected my first lot and brought them home to my mother.
I was remembering the storm I had caused when I had offered
my father part of my salary. Again, Mother took all I gave her
and said nothing.
My routine settled down to an unremitting headlong pace,
but I never found time to be bored.
Each morning I was up early. I reached the university at nine
and taught until noon. At twelve I dashed home for lunch.
There was time for a very brief siesta and at two I was back in
the classroom; by four I was at work in Quezon s office in the
Senate building. After that I went home for dinner, and then
on to the Herald office.
The Herald was a morning paper. I would work until the
edition was ready for the press, sometimes at midnight, some
times two or three in the morning. No matter how little sleep
I had, I was up at eight the next morning.
My talent for catnapping was perfected during this period.
Between classes, under Quezon s very nose, or at my desk in
the Herald office the same desk that had been my companion
since my first subeditorial job I indulged in the brief moments
of total blackout that were all I needed. I could fall asleep any
where and under any conditions and I always felt energetic and
well. My mother kept a comfortable home, I was content with
my various jobs, and for a time was busy holding them. I was
too busy to give any thought to marriage. That was too perma
nent a situation for a young man on his way.
But girls that was different. I could always find time for
pretty girls and we have beautiful girls in Manila. The Romeo
158 I Walked with Heroes
and Juliet idyl of the Columbia campus faded in the light of a
new interest, but charming as she was, she could not claim much
of my time. I was too taken up with all those jobs.
At this time I was a serious and reflective young man, al
though I doubt if anyone meeting me casually would have
thought so. The years in America had deepened my innate
capacity for questioning. Now more than ever I was certain that
America s first intention for the Philippines had been right
Christian, democratic, free. America had taken charge of my
country on the promise that it would be trained for freedom.
Why then the promise and not the act? Why not the definite
pledge that on a certain day we would be free?
I had seen freedom in America, imperfect but indicative of
what freedom could be. The four Columbia years had fixed
that ideal more firmly than ever in my heart. Someday we too
could vote for the man of our choice; someday we would be
citizens of an independent nation.
Someday McKinley had promised, and Taft, and Wood-
row Wilson.
And now living in Malacanang Palace, in our midst, was
Leonard Wood, Governor General of the Philippines, who was
openly antagonistic to our national leader Quezon and against
Philippine independence. He was working through Washing
ton channels to withdraw from the Filipinos all the rights for
self-government we had won since the century started and our
subjection began.
Now I knew how those two gentle family men, my father
and grandfather, had felt when they took up their guns and left
their homes to fight first the Spanish usurper then the American.
The time had passed for guns. On my desk was the type
writer upon which I would wage my wars. My ammunition was
words, and with these I followed Quezon into the fight.
Despite the differences that were to come between Quezon
and myself from time to time, I see him still as the ideal leader
every country needs the man whose strongest motivation was
I Walked with Heroes 159
love of country. He had minor flaws, but his patriotism was
never in shadow. He knew exactly what the Philippine ideal
should be and he was willing to give his life to it, and in the end
he did.
Throughout his entire career Quezon fought a steady fight
for more self-government for the Philippines and eventual
emancipation from American rule. It was a crusade he had been
led into by Sergio Osmena, who as first speaker of the Assembly,
our first legislative body under American rule, had outlined the
ultimate plan for our self-government.
Osmena mapped out the dream. Quezon set it to action. He
had won the Jones Act for us. He was constantly urging Wash
ington to place more and more power in Filipino hands. He dis
covered bright young men and helped them attain key positions
to strengthen Filipino faith in our own power to govern.
And all he was doing, or trying to do, was being steadily un
dermined by his arch enemy, General Wood. Wood was not
only stopping Quezon on every advance but he was trying to
persuade America to rescind rights already won by Quezon.
It was an insult to Filipino leaders of conscience and intelli
gence to find themselves outranked in their own country by
Americans. But this was done, and by American protocol.
Americans outranked the Filipinos on all governmental levels.
Americans might think this is a trifling issue. But would
American people in government be pleased to have Filipinos
take social precedence in Washington and find themselves in
their own capital seated below the salt?
It may not have been important, but it was a constant source
of hurt to Filipino leaders.
Quezon was struggling to place more Filipinos in pkces of
authority and to have more concessions made to their dignity.
Since the Philippines would eventually become self-governing,
he argued, their training should start as soon as possible. He was
always planning ways to wrest more concessions from the
160 I Walked with Heroes
United States that would increase Filipino participation in the
government and enhance their dignity.
Quezon wanted more Filipino members in the cabinet. Gov
ernor General Wood was fighting to reduce the power of that
cabinet. It was move and countermove in open enmity. On
rattling typewriter keys I kept pace with the contest and did my
best to win support for Quezon.
Open war broke out between the two when Wood made a
deliberate attempt to interfere with Secretary of the Interior
Jose P. Laurel s powers as head of his department.
A night meeting was held in Quezon s home. The entire Fili
pino cabinet was present. It was resolved that they should re
sign in protest against Wood.
This dramatic and shocking move gave force to Quezon s
fight to elect Ramon Fernandez, of the well-known shipping
family, to a seat in the Senate. His candidacy was skillfully op
posed by Juan Sumulong, head of the Democratic party and the
brains of the opposition.
While Sumulong did not entirely sustain the views of Gov
ernor Wood, he was anti-Quezon, and therefore he campaigned
against Fernandez.
Quezon respected Sumulong more than any other member of
the opposition. He challenged Sumulong to a series of debates.
Up and down the island all through the campaign the skillful
antagonists dueled verbally in a series of public debates, Quezon
upholding Fernandez, Sumulong protesting. (As Lincoln had
debated against Douglas a century before.)
Wood sprang to the support of Sumulong in the hope of de
feating Quezon. Quezon turned his attack against Wood, cam
paigning through province after province to portray Wood as
the arch enemy of the Philippines. Wood, entrenched in the
Palace, countervilified Quezon as a tyrant and dictator.
It was a hot struggle with no holds barred and the first cam
paign I had ever watched from the inside. I lost more sleep than
usual, not wanting to miss any of the excitement. Sometimes
I Walked with Heroes 161
members of the press and Quezon s secretarial staff sat up all
night in Quezon s home in Pasay waiting for word of his latest
foray in the provinces. I remember one morning he came in
about six o clock, exhausted and begrimed after a night meeting
and a long drive over dusty roads.
He dropped into his chair, then burst out in a passionate
tirade. "How I wish," he fumed, "that the goddam Americans
would tyrannize over us so that I could have stronger issues to
debate against Wood."
How typical of our ironic situation, I thought. Here was
satire, a politician fighting to win an election and complaining
because he could not find enough blame in his opponents! India
had no lack of complaints under the English, Indonesia had long
lists of grievances under the Dutch, and here was Quezon back
ing a valuable issue and with no useful complaints to launch
against America!
Against the American Wood his protests were legion! But
he was not attacking America.
Now that I knew America I agreed with Quezon. I could not
believe that what Wood was trying to do to us had the support
of the American public. Americans were fair. They simply did
not know the Filipino, his needs and his dreams.
There it was again my personal motivation. I had to help
make the Philippines understandable to the world. I had to help
somehow with the small might allotted me. Why should one
man, representing his country in another land, be permitted to
misrepresent his nation s ideals as Wood was doing?
Moods of passionate indignation are not rare with me. This
was a situation I felt keenly because I was Filipino. I went to
the Herald office, sat down at my typewriter, and launched an
arrow into the air in the shape of an editorial attack against
Governor Wood.
The editorial appeared on the following day and received a
flattering amount of approval within my immediate range.
Since the Herald was pro-Quezon everyone on the staff ap-
1 62 I Walked with Heroes
plauded. On the campus the students, pro-Quezon to a lad, were
highly approving. The Senate denizens of course were pleased.
Wherever I went on my daily rounds I was told I had done well.
I preened in my warrior s plumage and rejoiced in the trophies
of victory.
The telephone rang early the next morning. I was having
breakfast at home with my mother. General Frank McCoy,
chief adviser to the Governor General, asked me to come to
Wood s office at once.
As fast as I could get to Wood s office I was there. Everything
about the place intimidated me: the glowing wood paneling,
the heavy furniture, and most of all the impressive brooding
figure of General Wood.
On his desk lay yesterday s Herald, folded back to my edito
rial. How many times have my irrefutable words stared up at
me from desks of power? My own fiery opinions accused me
and I could not, would not deny them, not even under Wood s
accusing glare.
"You wrote that, Romulo?" His pointing finger shook. He
was boiling. He had not asked me to be seated but launched his
attack in a roar.
Then, with swelling anger, he shouted, "Don t you know
what would be happening to you if you d written an editorial
like this under the Spanish regime? You d be facing a firing
squad on the Luneta at this very moment! "
"General," I asked, very softly, "may I sit down?"
My debating experiences had taught me the cutting value of
a soft word. He did not answer so I sat down. Then I proceeded
to tfllk, quietly but emphatically. "Certainly I know what
would be happening to me under Spanish rule. But when I wrote
that article I knew I was under the protection of the American
flag and that is why I felt at liberty to write as I did."
He sat back and stared at me. Finally he said in a bitter tone.
"Don t you think it s a pity that you should have been educated
I Walked with Heroes 163
in the United States and come back here to be led about by a
politician like Quezon?"
I pointed to the Herald. "Quezon had nothing to do with my
writing that editorial. It represents my views as a Filipino and
the views of the Filipino people. Quezon is the leader of our
people and the editorial concerns him only in that way."
He whipped over to sarcasm. "So," he said cuttingly, "you
are a politician as well as a newspaperman!"
I stood up. "If you have sent for me to ask whether or not I
am a politician I don t want to waste any more of your rime."
Wood skpped his hand on the desk. "I sent for you to tell
you, you are in the wrong!" he shouted. "This editorial is not
fair to me. As Governor General of the Philippines I deserve
better treatment from the Herald!"
"The columns of the Herald are open to you, Governor," I
told him. "Anything you wish published by way of an answer
will be published. We will print it in the exact place of this
editorial and allow you the exact amount of space. Write what
ever you like and send it to me."
Several days later I told Quezon of the meeting.
"What has happened since then?" he asked.
^Nothing. I haven t heard a word from the Governor."
Quezon laughed and said I wouldn t hear again from Wood.
He was right. Quezon declared I had won the victory.
Perhaps it went to my head. At any rate I made a serious
mistake. I indulged in bitterness.
I have since learned that there is no situation that is not
worsened by bitterness. But I was young and hot-headed and
could not forgive Wood s incessant attacks on Quezon. In Fili
pino minds an attack on our leader was a blow to the very heart
of our country.
I had our Herald cartoonist, Fernando Amorsolo, draw a
cartoon of Wood stabbing a Filipino woman, personifying the
Philippines at the mercy of a heartless representative of Amer
ica. Amorsolo put his heart into the drawing and it caused a
164 I Walked with Heroes
great deal of comment in the capital. But the instant I saw it on
the front page of the Herald I knew I had committed an ugly
injustice. It was too late to withdraw the cartoon, but I did
run an apology in the next day s edition. It was too late. The
harm was done and I had made my first powerful enemy.
That enmity would last throughout the long-drawn-out con
test between Wood and Quezon, which Quezon carried to
Washington, and which would end with Wood s death, and,
ultimately, Quezon s.
We must be fair. General Wood was against Filipino inde
pendence because he was honestly convinced that in the long
run the Philippines would be better off under the protection of
America. He was interested in the common man; he always saw
that the national treasury was filled and the national budget
balanced. He was an excellent administrator, and in all matters
except independence he was fair and just. But he did not under
stand the Filipino dream of running his own country and being
free to do so. Better a dinner of herbs in freedom, than caviar
under a crown.
Again it was carnival time. The pre-Easter festivities were to
climax as always with the series of balls in the auditorium pre
sided over by the carnival queen. This festival is similar to the
Mardi Gras in New Orleans and the queen is chosen for her
beauty by popular vote.
Carnivals had small place in my life. Even in my student days
I had worked on newspapers at night and news stories of a
pressing nature had kept me occupied during this carefree time.
The past four years had been spent in America.
This season, the year after my return from America, found
me celebrating the carnival against my will.
Each Manila newspaper chose its own Filipino beauty to
sponsor for carnival queen. Each ran articles citing the good
looks and accomplishments of their choice, published her pic
tures, and solicited votes in her behalf. The Herald s candidate
I Walked with Heroes 165
was a Miss Virginia Lkmas, from the town of Pagsanjan. She
was a high-school student in the Philippine Women s College.
I did not meet Miss Llamas in person during her campaign, but
as I selected pictures from her many publicity shots to fill our
daily pages I was struck with the certainty that I had met her
before.
Finally I remembered. A picnic had been given by the Co
lumbian Association and among the guests was Miss Llamas. I
recalled we had been introduced, without mutual interest. I
had thought her beautiful, but my attentions were on the girl
I had brought to the picnic, a girl I had met shortly after my
return to Manila who had done much to heal the scars left by
my broken campus idyL
So for the Herald s sake I was glad that when the contest
ended, our candidate had won. Miss Llamas was to be beauty
queen of the carnival and reign over all the auditorium balls.
The day after we printed this triumphant announcement
Manuel Earnshaw called me into his office. He was general
manager of the Herald, formerly Resident Commissioner in
Washington, and a great friend of Quezon s. Any request he
had to make of an assistant editor would be a "must."
He was an enthusiastic man* "Rommy," he began, "I want
you to act as prince consort to our queen. Escort her to all the
balls and be seen with her everywhere all during the carnival.
The Herald elected her and everything you two do together
will be good publicity."
"Are you kidding?" I demanded.
I didn t like the idea at all. My girl and I had planned to at
tend the carnival as spectators. She was not going to approve of
my acting as escort to the queen.
I protested. "I am in mourning. I cannot possibly attend a
ball.
Earnshaw said he realized it was true that my father had
recently died. "But this is for the paper," he argued. "It s im
portant. You can mourn your father in private. The Herald is
1 66 I Walked with Heroes
entitled to all the publicity the carnival can give us, after all
we ve done for the carnival, and you re just the lad who can
get it for us by escorting the queen."
There was no refusing him. It was true that as prince consort
I would have the inside track on all the carnival news. It was a
good break for the Herald. But how could I explain this to the
young lady who had expected to enjoy the carnival with me?
I made one final stand. "How do I know Miss Llamas wants
me? I ve only met her once."
Earnshaw said he would take care of that.
I went home in a gloomy state of mind. My mother, sisters,
and brothers were already at the table. When I announced my
rise to royal estate everyone whooped with mirth except my
mother, who became unexpectedly indignant.
"You, an editor!" my mother said. "You, a university grad
uate, who has been to the United States! Acting as prince con
sort to a Miss Philippines!" Then, suddenly suspicious, she de
manded, "Did she ask for you?"
I could see what my mother was thinking. Firmly wedged
in her mind was the image of King Cophetua forced to kneel
before the maid from the country. It was true, as all her pub
licity had stressed, that Miss Llamas was from the provinces,
but as a matter of fact so were we!
My brothers and sisters had no respect for my feelings. Car
los with a crown on his head! Carlos in ermine! They had never
heard anything so funny.
Laughter lightened the gloom that had lain on our home since
our father s death. I was almost glad to be in this absurd position
since it served to make my family temporarily gay.
But I resented the appointment, and my resentment fastened
on Miss Llamas, whose pert, pretty face had won her the crown.
I hoped Earnshaw would forget the entire idea.
Earnshaw never forgot anything. That afternoon he bounced
into my office. "Well, it s all arranged. I ve just talked things
I Walked with Heroes 167
over with our queen and she has no objection to your being her
escort."
"Objection!" I howled. I was the one to object. With what
little dignity I had left, I snapped, "Perhaps she had better
speak to me about it! "
Earnshaw gave me a queer look. "Perhaps you had better
speak to her."
There was an edge to his voice. It was the voice of the Herald.
Meekly I asked where Miss Llamas was staying.
She was at the home of her uncle, Catalino Lavadia, Secretary
of Commerce. I had met him in New York with his wife, a
charming lady.
He greeted me at his door with an irritating grin. "Well, how
is the prince consort?"
At that moment Miss Llamas joined us. Her color was high,
her manner imperious. She started right in. "Why are you
refusing to be my prince consort?"
I was staring at her. She was so angry and so much prettier
than her pictures that I, usually glib of speech, found myself
tongue-tied.
"Who says I refused?" I stammered.
"Mr. Earnshaw!"
"I merely suggested . . ."
"Then it s decided!" The ice maiden melted. Miss Llamas
smiled. She was beautiful! I stammered out my thanks. It was
too late to tell her or anyone else about the other girl.
The night of Virginia s coronation in the auditorium was
one of the most humiliating experiences of my life. She was
poised, beautiful, triumphant. I was in misery. She was serene;
I squirmed.
Some artistic genius had decided that the motif of the coro
nation ball should be Roman. Virginia wore her flowing impe
rial robe with ease and grace.
Just before the procession was to start I was crammed into
1 68 I Walked with Heroes
a short toga and jersey tights that were far too small and made
me horribly aware of my knobby knees. My bare feet were
laced into Roman sandals which turned out not to be a pair, but
in odd sizes. The tight thongs of one cut between my toes while
the sole of the other flapped like a Chaplin shoe. My laurel-
leaf crown was of cutout tin with jagged edges. I could not
adjust it where it did not stab my head, and as I led the glowing
queen the long way across the auditorium floor to the clapping
of thousands of spectators one shoe slapped loudly over the
sound of applause and a tin point in my slipping crown drove
into my temple like a dagger.
It was a walk taken in nightmare, but the ridiculous figure I
cut need not have worried me for all eyes were on the queen.
Virginia s gracious, smiling dignity saved us. Worst of all for
me was the glimpse I caught of the girl of my dreams. She was
sitting alone in a box viewing my march with amused disdain.
As soon as the Queen was crowned, I left her on the throne
surrounded by her court and dashed to the box where the girl
was waiting. I danced every dance with her.
There are nine nights of carnival and nine balls. Eight of
those evenings I escorted our queen across the auditorium floor
to her throne and left her there while I danced with my girl.
Miss Llamas never reproved me. She kept her queenly dignity
on and off the throne.
That intrigued me. That and her beauty, which seemed to
grow with the nights of carnival. Still I have no idea why on
the ninth and final night I did not rush from the queen s side as
usual but lingered beside the throne.
"Will you dance with me? " I blurted out at last.
It would have served me right if she had turned me down.
Instead, she gave me a look of mock concern.
"Are you sure you re not sick? " she asked.
We danced. She thanked me in the sweetest way for having
acted as her prince consort. There was no reproof for the nights
I had left her to dance with her courtiers, I found myself unable
I Walked with Heroes 169
to leave her and we spent dance after dance together- Once I
glanced up at the box where I thought the other girl would be
waiting. She had gone.
The next day I called on Miss Llamas at her uncle s home,
not as a reluctant prince but as an eager and humble suitor. I
came with an invitation. I wanted her to visit my home and
meet my people. She refused.
But my entire family had fallen in love with her. They sang
her praises and only my mother was silent.
I spoke to her privately. "Mother," I said, "I think I am falling
in love with Miss Llamas."
My mother spoke in the positive tone she seldom used. "I
think she is the right girl for you."
Heretofore the struggle to get ahead had been foremost.
Now all that mattered was the winning of a beautiful little
girl from the town of Pagsanjan. For once, speech was letting
me down. My Tarlac dialect is Pangasinan. Virginia s was
Tagalog. She spoke Spanish, the speech of love, far better than
1. 1 had to carry on my siege in English, the language we had
spoken together from the first.
Every day I sent her a letter, special delivery; every day a
gift of the sort a "nice young girl" could receive. I presented
myself at her uncle s door whenever opportunity, or Virginia,
would permit. For once, my many jobs and responsibilities were
not permitted to interfere.
Miss Llamas had won her contest honestly. She was beautiful
and popular. There were other men with more to offer; above
all, these others had leisure time. I was willing to work hard,
to offer more in the end, but meanwhile time was what I didn t
have! I had to spend the mornings in the university classrooms,
my afternoons with Quezon, evenings at the Herald.
The pursuit of love is a feverish process, and I was not certain
mine was getting me anywhere. That cool, aloof dignity of
Virginia s left me desperately unsure of myself.
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At the height of this war of attrition Quezon upset my life
and my love by asking me to go with him to America.
Half of me was wild to go. Such an invitation meant I was
singled out from his other secretaries to accompany my hero
to Washington, where he was to lead another mission for inde
pendence. We would be away three months.
How the honor would have thrilled me a few weeks before!
Now it could not have come at a more inopportune time.
Miss Llamas had shown no particular interest in my atten
tions. She had not encouraged me; on the other hand, she had
not been openly discouraging. I had lavished upon her all the
romantic technique I had learned in the United States. She was
not impressed.
Aside from "love," another word, "independence," lured
me. If I could help in that fight in any way I would, even if my
heart broke. I took temporary leave of the Herald, the uni
versity, my hopes of Virginia, and sailed with Quezon.
One resolution I made was that Miss Llamas was not to forget
me. I posted burning messages from every port, and once in
Washington not a day went by without a letter and gift being
sent to the Philippines. Wherever my travels with Quezon car
ried me, my first hunt was for a suitable gift, my next for the
post office.
During those three months in Washington a little more im
petus was given to the independence fight. My admiration for
Quezon grew. How much at ease he was in Washington, and
how well thought of by the Americans on Capitol Hill. I was
proud of him, proud to be seen with him, proud of the small
victories won.
Our return home was a triumph. Once I had watched Quezon
make such an entry into Manila from my perch with other stu
dents on the old Spanish wall. Now I was part of his entourage.
Part of the glory of his return rubbed off on me.
I hurried home, and was just about to leave for my first call
on Miss Llamas when a delivery van stopped at our door. All
I Walked with Heroes 171
the gifts I had chosen with such care in the United States were
carried into my house. There were boxes of books unopened,
boxes of moldy chocolates. I was furious! How dared this little
schoolgirl from the provinces do this to me!
I confronted her in her uncle s home with my accusations.
She was impersonal, aloof. I tried to sweep her off her feet. She
remained firmly rooted to the ground. All my learned-in-Amer-
ica technique failed.
"But why?" I kept insisting. <c Why this coldness?"
For a long time she would not explain. Then one day she
broke down. "I cannot feel sure of you," she said. "Something
tells me you are a most unreliable man."
Another man might have given up. I was filled with bound
less hope. She was thinking about me!
I felt I was advancing in my campaign. It has always taken
very little to encourage me. My efforts were intensified. I was
working against time, as Virginia was about to graduate from
high school. Then she would leave her uncle s home in Manila
and return to Pagsanjan.
The thought was unendurable. I gathered my forces for a
major offensive, do or die. Zero hour was the night of her grad
uation, with its emotional ceremonies and Virginia sparkling in
white. The basket of flowers she received that night from me
was, I am certain, the largest floral display ever arranged by a
Manila florist. In my pocket, over my heart, was a ring.
In the midst of the festivities I managed to maneuver Virginia
to a window. There I poured out all the oratory, all the poetry
my heart had been secreting these many anguished months. I
brought forth the ring. All my hopes were in that tiny circlet.
She was deeply moved, but she kept her head. "I must consult
my family," she said, and that was all she would say, but the
look she gave me needed no words to make me feel I had seen
heaven itself. I slipped the diamond on her finger. The next day
she left for Pagsanjan.
Now, in addition to the crowded, busy weeks, I had Sundays!
I Walked with Heroes
Pagsanjan is about a three-hour drive from Manila. I bought
a car. Every Saturday night after putting the Herald to bed, I
would drive out of Manila about three in the morning. I would
arrive at Pagsanjan about six, go to the Abella Hotel, bathe and
change, and hurry to nine o clock Mass.
There I would catch a glimpse of Virginia with her head bent
demurely under its square of black lace, surrounded by her
family.
In those days, in the Philippines, the Spanish rules of court
ship were universally preserved. They still are in decorous
homes. After Mass I would leave the church and follow Virginia
to her door, keeping a respectful distance. Her family knew I
was following, Virginia knew, but I might have been an invisible
man. On red-letter Sundays her father, seeing me loitering out
side their gate, might speak a word of greeting. Then the ladies
would bow. I was visible! I might even be asked to lunch!
These invitations became more frequent. After lunch Vir
ginia and I would be permitted to sit and talk in the drawing
room. There was nothing private about these tete-a-tetes. Every
word was overheard, every movement observed, for all the
doors to the room were left open and wherever one looked one
would see Virginia s father, her brothers and sisters, her mother,
and also her two aunts in their home across the street, sitting in
strategic positions and all in full view.
But if the night was to be a moonlight one Virginia would
ask me to remain over for the evening. I would hurry through
my dinner at the hotel to be in the plaza in time for the prom
enade. This custom in the Philippines starts at dusk. It is the
gathering time for the young people of the community, with
a band playing in the plaza and the boys and girls walking to
the music, chatting gaily. Every now and then in passing I
would touch Virginia s hand for a moment and I would notice
that she wore my ring.
Still, she would give me no definite answer.
I was becoming impatient. I was earning a fair income and I
I Walked with Heroes 173
wanted to marry. I wanted to marry Virginia. At the university
I was promoted from assistant to associate professor. The
Herald was doing well and Quezon continued to show his trust
in my judgment. I wanted a wife and a home of my own. The
only wife I wanted was Miss Virginia Llamas, and she was
keeping me in suspense.
It dawned on me that with the conventional Llamas family
a formal request would be necessary. I asked Virginia for an
appointment with her father. But I wanted to know from her
first if she wanted me to ask for her hand. It was then that she
gave me her affirmative answer. And she suggested our wed
ding day her birthday, July i . For days I walked on clouds.
I rounded up a family delegation to go with me the next Sun
day to Pagsanjan my mother and my sister Lourdes, with the
man she had recently married, Carlos Kipping. The drive had
never seemed so long. I was edgy with nerves. The atmosphere
in Virginia s home did not help. There was a definite chill in
the air.
Virginia s parents and aunts met my family group with omi
nous reserve. Virginia was in an adjoining room. Something
was decidedly wrong. She was, I was told later, fidgeting with
a compact, as my mother with her customary dignity made a
formal request in my behalf to Virginia s father.
Mr. Llamas shook his head. "I cannot consent to their mar
riage."
There was a crash. Virginia had dropped the compact.
My tiny mother drew herself up like a tigress about to spring.
Her eyes flashed, his flashed, pride struck pride.
"Why? "she demanded.
Mr. Llamas did not weaken. "Because it has come to my ears
that your son has already contracted a marriage while in the
United States. I am having the charge investigated by Resident
Commissioner Pedro Guevara and by Secretary Lavadia, and
until I know the truth I will not give my consent."
174 I Walked with Heroes
I had been ordered to remain silent throughout these prelimi
naries, but now, in a storm of indignation, burst out.
"Marriage?" I shouted. "That is a lie! Everything you have
heard is wrong. Sweethearts, yes, I have had those, but all that
is over. I swear to you I have never been married. But your
refusing us cannot spoil everything because your daughter and
I have already decided to get married. We only came today out
of deference to you to ask you to agree to the date! "
Virginia had entered the room. She was staring at me. So was
her father.
"What date?" he thundered.
"Our wedding day! Virginia s birthday!"
In the stunned silence that followed this pronouncement my
mother stepped forward. She was bristling with indignation.
"Mr. Llamas, do you think I would be here today with my son
if he were already married?"
Before this onslaught Mr. Llamas threw in the sponge. "You
have convinced me," he said, and turning to Virginia, "you
have my consent."
And then, what emotion was in that home! In a surge of good
will and happiness two families became one.
Back in Manila I blissfully set about the happy task of house
hunting. A small bungalow in the Malate district seemed per
fect, and I would be able to pay for it out of my earnings. When
I told my mother that, she said there was no need for me to
buy the house on time. Then she gave me a bankbook made out
in my name. She had banked every peso I had given her since
my first job on the Cable-News! Month after month she had ac
cepted a large share of my salary without a word. I thought it
was going to the support of our home, instead mother had saved
it all for me.
Women amaze me with the skill they show at weddings. In
the Philippines, as in all countries that follow Spanish customs,
the burden of preparation and all the wedding expenses are as
sumed by the groom s family, from the bride s and her at-
I Walked with Heroes 175
tendants gowns to the wedding bouquet and the ring. When I
found myself with sons to marry off my wife and I went
through this procedure with mixed joy and dismay. Virginia
has combed three continents to provide for our sons and their
brides.
My widowed mother did not shirk her responsibilities. Ac
tually I think she enjoyed the turmoil and the planning, as
many women do. She approved the little house and furnished
it for us as her own special gift; then, like a general commanding
her troops, she marshaled all our relatives and let them know
what gifts would be most acceptable. By this strategy all the
linen, glassware, silver, and kitchenware we could possibly need
was provided for the new home, all perfectly matched and
without duplication.
A friend or relative need only inquire what sort of gift the
dear young things would like, and Mother was right there with
the answer. She kept lists. Everything was chosen for us down
to the last broom. Virginia and I had only to exult in our
beautiful wedding and look forward to happiness.
We were married on July i, 1924, in the Pagsanjan town
church and honeymooned in the mountains at Baguio.
When I returned to the university a new success awaited me.
There was a demand for certain types of textbooks, and in my
spare time, in collaboration with two of my esteemed col
leagues, I wrote a book on college composition especially suited
to the needs of Filipino students. I also prepared an adaptation
of an American textbook, Better English, published by The
John C. Winston Company for advanced students in the fifth
and sixth grades. Both books were published, and with their
royalties I bought my bride a piano for our new home.
I had married a young girl of fragile, doll-like beauty. Still I
was not surprised when Virginia assumed charge of household
and personal accounts and showed such business acumen and
common sense that since our marriage I have carried out no
plans that were not first discussed with her. My mother had also
1 76 I Walked with Heroes
been dainty and beautiful, but she had cared for her husband
and children and home with skill and intelligence, as well as
love. I am afraid I took it for granted that a girl like Virginia
would be an artist in homemaking and in social living.
She managed with such quiet ease, as my mother had, that I
did not appreciate her calm efficiency until the night we gave
our first dinner party. I was in a dither for days. Virginia was
serene. Our first guests were to be the retiring head of the
English Department, Dr. Scott, and his wife. He was my supe
rior and I wanted to show off my beautiful young wife and our
new home. It was a farewell party, as he was about to return to
the United States and I was to take his place, at his recommen
dation.
Virginia was working on a budget. She made her plans for
the dinner well in advance, choosing every course with care.
We had a new cook, hired the week before.
Work kept me in the Herald office on the day of our party,
and I did not get home until an hour before dinner. Before I
entered the house I heard the crash of crockery.
Virginia met me at the door. She was pale but calm. "The
cook is drunk. He is smashing all our dishes."
I hurried into the kitchen. The floor was littered with shards
of our fine new dishes and glassware. There were no prepara
tions toward dinner. The cook was standing by the cold stove,
eyes bloodshot and head lowered. He charged me and offered
to fight. I was going to hit him with a golf club I had picked
up but Virginia stopped me. She was perf ectly at ease.
"Don t worry about him. Go and get dressed. I ll attend to
everything."
She was at the garage talking to my driver, Emilio, when I
recovered enough to call her. I asked, "Where is the car going? "
"To the Hotel de France," she called back, and the car drove
away.
That meant nothing to me. I went back to the kitchen, dis
missed the cook, and saw him out of the house. Then I glanced
I Walked with Heroes 177
around the kitchen. Dinner was obviously an impossibility, so
I decided to follow my bride s advice. I bathed and dressed
and met her in the living room.
She was serene and smiled at me sweetly. "Everything is all
right," she said. There was no time for further explanation be
cause Dr. and Mrs. Scott were coming up our walk.
Our guests never knew there was anything out of the or
dinary about that dinner or that they were the first guests in
our new home. Virginia was unruffled and gay so I soon lost my
anxiety. The dinner was perfectly cooked and perfectly served,
by a servant strange to me. I said nothing, but relaxed com
pletely after the first course. I had forgotten the Hotel de
France had a superb catering service.
It was a perfect evening, and after the Scotts left I told Vir
ginia so. She put her hands to her head and moaned.
"Oh that dinner! Our budget! It cost one half of your salary
this month. And I have been trying so hard to save!"
I told her it was worth every cent, and it was.
It is understandable that everything I earn is always turned
over to her.
After that hectic beginning all our social plans have gone
welL Virginia attends to everything.
A few years more, and with the same serene aplomb, Vir
ginia would seat sixty guests at our Manila dinner table at a
party in honor of General Douglas MacArthur. At a white-tie
dinner and reception honoring John Foster Dulles appointment
as Secretary of State thirty-two guests sat down at our table,
and later, at the reception, we welcomed one thousand more.
When President Garcia visited Washington we received five
thousand guests at a reception and then gave a dinner for Pres
ident and Mrs. Eisenhower in the Philippine Embassy.
Virginia meets every mammoth social emergency with the
same calmness she displayed when she salvaged our first dinner
for two guests at the beginning of our marriage.
Her true development has come in Washington, where she
178 I Walked with Heroes
attends personally to all details of our extensive entertaining
on ambassadorial levels.
The social season starts in November in Washington. By
September she has all our embassy affairs organized, some of
them months in advance. Guests of honor are chosen and
guest lists gone over with the social secretary, Mrs. Gertrude K.
Guevara called by our boys Nonna whom we have found
a valued addition to our lives. Then Virginia enters upon a
course of reading. She studies the biographies of all the guests
so she will know who they are and what subjects can be brought
up that are certain to spark their interest. None of this is due to
any suggestions on my part. She has worked out her own
scheme of hostess-ship.
She reads the newspapers I read, the Washington Post, the
Evening Star, and the New York Times; she is au courant with
world affairs and knows what is transpiring on Capitol HilL She
is the gentlest of women, but her way of thinking is sound. I
often say we share one opinion and it is hers.
I sometimes wonder, if I had succeeded in my protests against
acting as prince consort to a beauty queen what would have
happened to my life?
My mother had been right. Virginia was the wife for me.
She was to be my shrewd and loving adviser in the problems
I was shordy to face.
Eleven
A SALARIED man does not set his own course. For the rest of
the twenties the century s and my own I rocketed between
jobs, always subject to change. Hard-working and uncertain as
were those years, still they hold for me in memory much of the
deepest happiness I have known.
There has been little rime in my life for memories. Time is
too precious to waste in looking back. There are memories at
which my wife and I can laugh together, and at others we weep.
So much to remember! I look back and wonder what has be
come of that young girl and young man who set out with so
much to offer life and each other.
I remember the many happinesses together or shared with
friends, because we were outgoing and in love. I remember my
self as young, always fighting battles against windmills outside
the home, and returning to a resting place and haven tended by
one unfailingly good and kind.
One of the early scenes we remember with laughter is of Vir
ginia, flushed and young and newly married, and tearfully
angry because she had found lipstick on the hem of all places
of a Chinese robe I had worn to a Chinese dinner, packing her
suitcases and telling me she was going back to live with her
mother, and then angrier than ever with me when I did not hold
her against her will!
Marriages are built on storms and sorrows and ecstasy buried
in the secret places of the heart. There has been the terrible
wracking grief of irrevocable loss and the love that helps and
heals. I have been a happy man and at times a sad man, but in
the long run I can say Kf e has been good.
179
180 I Walked with Heroes
The endless climb upward, the falling back and starting again,
the building and destruction and building again, the anger and
prayers and losses, and the laurels and injustices, and above all
the family and the friends all have been worth-while. A small
man from a small country has at times found life too large and
beautiful to bear.
One of those moments came when Mike was born. Carlos
Llamas Romulo, Junior, was named for me. Virginia would
have it that way. Then Gregorio, known as Greg, and named
for my father. No laurels can equal those moments when the
newly born is pkced in one s arms to cherish for life, if God
wills.
We were a happy family. We were also a family that could
use more income than I was earning. I took on the added duties
of the university s debating coach, and the team I trained took
all local honors.
Success went to our heads. We sent challenges to leading
universities in America and all were accepted. In 1928, leaving
Virginia with two baby boys, I brought four student debaters
to the United States. The tour was wonderful. We debated at
fourteen universities from west to east, from Stanford Univer
sity in Calif ornia to Bates College in Maine, which is the out
standing debating college in the United States. Everywhere we
went we were royally entertained and warmly welcomed, and
we won every debate. Our prize was to continue on our way
home via Europe. It was the first of my trips around the world,
We returned to Manila and were given a dazzling reception at
the pier. The entire student body from the university turned
out along with students of other schools, and we were cheered
as heroes and draped with floral necklaces the Hawaiians make
of orchids and call leis, but which in Manila are made of sampa-
guita (the fragrant jasmine), our national flower.
My wife and the babies were in the crowd. How often my
sons were to welcome me home to Manila, and always see me
I Walked with Heroes 181
depart again, too soon, after too brief a time with them. I have
few regrets but this is one.
There was no gloom in my heart that morning as we paraded
all the way to the university, under floral arches erected in our
honor, to a draped band-stand on the campus where I had to
make an impromptu speech.
It was one of the most practical speeches I have ever made, be
cause the debating team s expenses for the American trip had
been raised by public contribution. Then and there I rendered a
public accounting of every penny we had spent on the tour.
The auditor of the university was on the stand, and I presented
him with the financial statement I had kept despite my loathing
of figures and with all the receipts I had saved.
Every member of that debating team has subsequently made
his mark in the world.
I had returned to a situation that was to reshape my life, for
this year, 1928, was a year of turmoil and change. Strange cur
rents in America were beginning to affect the world. News
papers are always barometers of economic change, and at this
time the Manila papers were in a constant state of flux, I was
personally affected when the Herald went into receivership,
with Alejandro Roces as receiver.
Benitez promptly resigned. He was for Quezon under any
circumstances, and he knew Roces would not permit blind
loyalty to any political figure. Roces declared the Herald politi
cally independent and offered me the promotion to editor in
Benitez place. I took it. The paper was still in receivership when
I became its editor. At the same time I resigned as Quezon s
secretary. Man cannot serve two masters, and if the Herald was
to be an independent paper I had to be free. Resigning as his
secretary was the only way I could be independent of political
pressure from Quezon.
Almost at once I saw the wisdom of this move. Under Roces
the Herald began to criticize certain official acts of the Senate
President. The first attack was a claim that the clothing allow-
1 82 I Walked with Heroes
ance given members of Quezon s independence mission was ex
orbitant. Quezon resented this, and ill will developed between
him and Roces.
Quezon began maneuvering to get control of the Herald, to
get it out of the receivership of Roces. He reorganized the
group headed by Vicente Madrigal, a shipping magnate, which
had formerly controlled the paper, and started proceedings to
bring it back under that control. Madrigal was one of the loyal
supporters of Quezon. A shrewd, far-seeing businessman, he
had succeeded in building an industrial empire.
I did not like Quezon s move. It looked as though he wanted
control of the Herald just to stop its attacks on him, and this
seemed unworthy of die man we were looking up to as our
leader toward democracy. I believed then, and still believe, that
freedom of the press and freedom of speech are the very bul
warks of democracy.
What I thought did not matter. Quezon took over the
Herald. He asked me to remain as its editor. My reaction lacked
tact. I resigned.
This was out-and-out revolt against Quezon, and for a time I
heard nothing from him. I told myself I was sick of politics and
that a teaching job and a growing family were enough to con
tent any man. I told myself I was through with politics.
It was self-imposed exile.
Certainly there was enough in my life to keep me interested
and busy. At the university, to offset the sedentary teaching, I
took up boxing and fencing. Elino Flores, one of our best box
ers, gave me boxing lessons, and in fencing I was under Enrique
PenabeUa, a Cuban former fencing champion. The fencing was
fast exercise, and I liked boxing. (I gave up boxing when my
sons began growing up. Mike was a southpaw, and when I
found I could not parry his left parental dignity drove me from
the field.)
The truth was I simply could not get interested in strenuous
physical activity for its own sake. I am a strenuous man in that
I Walked with Heroes 183
I enjoy activity. But it must be activity with a purpose. I liked
newspaperwork because it was active.
I have mentioned the golf club I had intended to use in driv
ing the drunken cook from our kitchen. It was part of a set
friends had given me. I had gone out on the links two or three
times, but I did not enjoy playing and the clubs stood unused
for a long time in our hall.
The same is true of drinking and smoking. I smoked with my
reporters in newspaper days, but I never enjoyed it. I will drink
a martini when friends are drinking, but without enjoyment..
My vice is action, action of the mind and the errands this re
quires. I am always busy, always going somewhere and hurry
ing back. Therefore I do not crave synthetic activity.
These days my only form of exercise is walking, and as a rule
my gait is slowed to the pace of small, five-year-old legs trotting
alongside and a thousand questions having to be answered:
"Lolo, why don t we ride on horseback like cowboys?" or,
"Lolo, when can we fly to the moon?"
I continued to keep abreast of political movements in Manila,
the Philippines, and the world. So much was going on that
needed every citizen s voice of approval or dissent, and here was
I, voiceless for the first time since I was fifteen years old. In all
those years I had known the power of a newspaper at my back,
and no matter how small the voice, I had been able to speak.
Now I was only the teacher. And there were burning issues that
could use my help. It was every citizen s duty to speak up and
support movements that were right.
I discussed with my students the political situations in Manila
and all that Quezon was trying to do to prepare our country for
self-government. So much needed to be done. I lectured my
students on their civic responsibilities but meanwhile I was do
ing nothing to help.
In all fairness I could see that no matter what errors of judg
ment might be made by Quezon, he was still heart and soul for
184 I Walked with Heroes
the Philippines. He was our future. There were projects of his
in which I longed to have voice. And I was voiceless.
I missed being on a newspaper. I longed for the right to ex
press an editorial opinion on subjects close to my heart. Nothing
is quite equal to the frustration felt by a newspaperman who
finds himself without a paper. The frustration grew, so I was
in a receptive mood when Roces sent for me.
I have delayed admitting that Don Alejandro Roces was one
of my great admirations. I was an impressionable young man.
If, as sometimes happened, my heroes failed to live up to my
faith in them I suffered, but retained my faith in their best qual
ities. Quezon was a case in point. He had minor flaws but he was
the best leader we had.
Roces was one who never let me down. He was every inch
the blue blood, the Spanish grandee. In appearance he might
have stepped from a Goya painting, but his ideas were modern.
He was wealthy, courageous, and possessed of a social con
science. His integrity was unimpeachable. As the founder of the
TVT newspaper chain he was the father of responsible modern
journalism in the Philippines.
I knew him as a man of strong opinions, which he never per
mitted to interfere with the policy of his papers. Not once in
all the years that I was with him did he ever try to make use of
his powerful newspaper organization to serve selfish personal
ends.
I had great respect for Don Alejandro. I also liked his son
Alejandro, Junior, or "Andong," who worked with his father
in the publishing office and was my good friend.
And also, I missed newspaper work so profoundly that I was
ripe for suggestion.
So, facing the grandee of the press in his office, I asked what
he wanted of me.
"How would you like to be the editor of a new newspaper
printed in English? " he asked.
That meant a rival sheet to the Quezon-controlled Herald. I
I Walked with Heroes 185
remembered the bitterness of this man s quarrel with Quezon
and shook my head.
"It would never work," I said. "All the power in the govern
ment would be against us."
Don Alejandro s look held steel. "Scared?"
That was all I needed.
We brought out the first edition of the new paper, the
Tribune. As the youngest member of the Roces chain it was
well-received by the public. Quezon and the powers around
him did not like the paper. I did not like Quezon s not liking it.
As editor of the Tribune I took umbrage that the leader of a
nation should show open antagonism to a newspaper that prom
ised every intention of being fair.
Roces had announced that intention. He was an honorable
publisher. He was a patriotic Filipino. And he was the soul of
integrity. My loyalty was to him and the Tribune.
Quezon was frank in expressing his disapproval of the new
paper, which promised stiff competition to his own mouth
piece, the Herald. Some of these opinions were expressed dur
ing the Senate President s frequent appearances about the city
in night clubs and cabarets. I was no lily-souled puritan, but it
did seem to me that the leader of our people should set a better
example.
I have always believed a man in public office has certain moral
responsibilities. After I myself took office I often longed to give
way to my temper, which is hair-trigger, but restrained myself
because I felt it was up to me to set an example of dignity. Often
in hot weather in Washington or Manila I long to leave off my
tie and unbutton my shirt collar, but I do not because I believe
there are certain standards to be maintained.
And because I had so greatly admired Quezon I was the
angrier with him for letting his dignity fall.
So I wrote an indignant editorial in which I expressed my
opinion of the night clubbing of our Senate President. I knew I
would hear from Senate headquarters and I did.
1 86 I Walked with Heroes
The summons reached my home at seven the next morning.
I was to be in Quezon s office at eleven that morning. When I
left for the university I was deeply worried.
Virginia s calm words, as I left her, were a help. "You are in
the right," she said.
I conducted my classes in a haze of anxiety. During a study
period I went over to the Tribune office and told Roces what I
was about to face.
"I may be in serious trouble," I warned him, and remember
ing Quezon s violent temper, "I warn you, if Quezon raises his
voice I will raise mine. And if he raises his hand . . ."
Don Alejandro cut in with advice I have never forgotten. "It
is only when a man knows reason is not on his side that he uses
his fists. Keep in mind that Manuel Quezon is the president of
our Senate. Treat him with respect, no matter what happens,
and you will have me behind you."
His cool dignity steadied me and I was calm when I con
fronted Quezon.
It might have been our first meeting. The same man, the same
office, the same glistening narra desk, and spread out on its sur
face this rime the accusing editorial page. Only now the paper
was the Tribune and I was its editor. I was no longer the trem
bling cub. Outwardly I was calm. Inwardly I shuddered with
the trepidation that boy reporter had suffered a dozen years
before.
Again the finger pointed, the deep, dark look probed. "What
is Roces trying to do?" Quezon demanded hotly. "Get even
with me?"
I had seen him often in action. His rage was terrible to watch,
worse to endure. Now his anger was at breaking point.
I spoke coolly. "Mr. Roces had absolutely nothing to do with
that editorial. He did not see it until it was in print. I wrote it
and I assume full responsibility."
His eyebrows met and his slender, beautifully groomed fig
ure trembled with anger. "I don t want to lose my temper," he
I Walked with Heroes 187
said. (It was already lost.) "But can t you see what you have
done? You have libeled me!"
"There is no libel here," I answered calmly. "There are a
thousand witnesses to the fact that you are being seen around
town at night in cabarets. What sort of example is that for the
leader of the Philippines to set for our young men?"
All this time we had been standing, glaring across the desk at
each other.
"Sit down," he said suddenly and more reasonably.
We sat, and leaning forward he was again the charmer, his
manner flattering, his voice winning.
"Romulo, let s make a bargain, you and I. I ll promise not to
be seen in night clubs any more if you will promise not to write
on the subject again."
"I promise," I said.
I was completely won over. All the old boyish idolatry swept
back. I wasn t the fighting editor and the university professor
but the high-school student looking down at his idol from the
Spanish wall.
With a confidential air, so charming and typical of Quezon,
he took his wallet from his pocket and opened it to show me a
clipping inside the cover. It was a clipping of the editorial. "This
is to remind me, Rommy, to keep me straight."
He smiled the warm gentle smile that said, There are cove
nants between us!
I stammered like a moonstruck boy. "Mr. President, this
proves you are the man I have always admired."
Once more I was his wholehearted devotee.
Away from his office and that all-enveloping charm I was as
sailed by nibblings of doubt. Had he clipped that editorial from
his home newspaper before his wife had a chance to read it? It
was not a subject to discuss with one s wife. Women, I had
learned, are likely to be too clear-visioned for comfort. I had
my boyish illusions. At heart I was still one with the Rover boys.
1 88 I Walked with Heroes
I added a new hero to my galaxy in this same important year,
1928. Although he roused my admiration at first meeting he
was not to attain full stature in my personal Hall of Fame until
the war in the Pacific, when he became the defender of the
Philippines. Douglas MacArthur first came to Manila as a brig
adier general of the Philippine Scouts, to help train our young
men for military life. Then in 1935 he returned as Quezon s
military adviser. This was Quezon s idea, but even he had no
idea then how much this defense would mean to the Philippines.
Chief assistant to MacArthur was a young, personable, seri
ous-minded major who was liked by everyone. We called him
"Ike," and were delighted when he was made a lieutenant
colonel.
My wife and I became close friends of the MacArthurs. They
came often to our home and Virginia and I visited in their beau
tiful apartment in the Manila Hotel. It was a friendship that was
to lead me into the tunnel on Corregidor.
Arrows were pointing the way to our freedom. "The Philip
pines for the Filipinos," Taft had promised. The new American
officials in authority being introduced into our country re
spected that promise. Wood was gone, and in his place came
Henry L. Stimson, who as an excellent American Governor
General showed respect and encouragement to the Filipinos.
He consulted the Filipino leaders on every point; he assisted
them in their advance toward independence; and, most appeal
ing of all to national sentiment, he divided invitations to Mala-
caiiang equally between Filipinos and Americans.
Stimson was a good friend of Quezon s and he became a
friend of mine as well. As the Tribune editor I was able to sup
port Stimson in every way, and gladly did so. It was a blow to us
when he was recalled to America to become Secretary of State.
But he was followed in 1929 by Dwight F. Davis, who was fol
lowed in 1933 by Frank Murphy, who like Stimson respected
Filipino ideals and aspirations.
Now we could see the advances being made on our national
I Walked with Heroes 189
front. The Philippines was forging ahead. Strong voices were
needed to insure freedom. Whatever I had to give that could
be of assistance was given. In the Tribune s editorial pages I
could trumpet our national ideals and needs, plead for racial
equality, the recognition of Filipino rights. Whatever I wrote
was endorsed by Roces.
How generous he was in his support of a fiery young editor!
His son, Andong, was a true newspaperman himself, having
worked from the bottom up on a Denver daily. He and I
worked closely together as a team. In return I gave the Tribune
an increasingly larger share in my daily life. It became the lead
ing newspaper in the city.
There were three Roces papers: the Tribune, printed in Eng
lish; the Taliba, in Tagalog; and La Vanguardia, in Spanish.
Two were evening papers and the Tribune, a morning one.
All were printed daily.
In 1930, shortly before my thirty-first birthday, Don Ale
jandro appointed me his editor in chief in full charge of the
Roces chain, called the TVT Newspapers. Now, for the first
rime in my life, I felt I had achieved success. I had a comfortable
home, an expanding family, everything a man could desire.
I was head of my department at the university and a member
of its Board of Regents. I had a position of value in the com
munity, and above all I had the right to speak forcefully for any
cause I felt was just. Don Alejandro permitted me to control the
editorial policy of the three papers, subject to his approval
which was always fair.
I was still separated from Quezon, and the paper he con
trolled, the Herald, was still the Tribune s enfeebled rival. Still
that did not prevent my supporting him in any of the crusades
I felt were right. Foremost always among them was the fight
for independence, and behind that I gave all the editorial power
three leading newspapers could command, with the full ap
proval of Mr. Roces.
It was my good fortune that this editorial power had come to
190 I Walked with Heroes
me just as the fight for independence neared its crisis. Its key
motivation was the first independence bill, known as the Hare-
Hawes-Cutting Act. This was being discussed in the American
Congress in the early thirties. Quezon sent Osmefia and Roxas
to Washington in 1 93 3 to work on its behalf. Their mission was
designated by the first syllable of their surnames, the Osrox
Mission.
While the two representatives were waiting in Washington
for the bill to be passed a coolness grew between them and Que
zon in Manila. I have never known the exact reason but it was
rumored that Quezon accused his emissaries of not consulting
him often enough. It may be he feared that if the bill passed,
Osmefia and Roxas would get all the credit and displace him
from the nation s leadership.
At any rate, Quezon in Manila carpetbagged against the bill.
While the two leaders in Washington were giving it their fullest
support, Quezon at home was working up general resentment
against it.
The bill s primary proviso called for American military bases
to be established in the Philippines after our country was free.
Quezon seized on this clause and used it as a weapon against the
bill. He made it an election issue. By submitting the issue in his
campaign to the Philippine electorate, he hoped to defeat the bill
overwhelmingly.
The Roces papers were at first noncommittal. Don Alejandro
sent me to Washington to see for myself how the bill was pro
gressing and to write a series of interpretative articles about the
Hare-Hawes-Cutting Act, giving both the Quezon and Osrox
points of view. It was my duty to see that our newspapers con
tinued to be fair to both sides.
Actually Don Alejandro and I were united at this time in
disapproval of Quezon. We could not condone his undermining
the efforts of the two good men in Washington. Roxas was a
great liberal and our best economist. Osmefia was one of our
greatest statesmen; he had in fact started our struggle for in-
I Walked with Heroes 191
dependence. It seemed to me they were being belittled by Que
zon s exploitation of the military base clause.
On the other hand I was slowly inclining to the conviction
that Quezon was right in protesting American military bases in
the Philippines. Once we achieved our independence might not
the presence in our country of military bases, manned by repre
sentatives of those who had once ruled over us, stir up trouble?
Perhaps it was best, as Quezon urged, to settle this matter in
advance before it was too late.
While Quezon was obviously exploiting this issue to its full
est to his own advantage he was also showing his customary
f oresightedness. American military bases in the Philippines were
to be a burning issue in my country years after the Philippines
were set free.
Why did it always come down to the one conclusion that
everything Quezon did was done for what he believed to be of
future benefit to the Philippines? He would sacrifice anyone
and anything that stood in our country s way. I began to see the
good in Quezon s attempts to sabotage the Hare-Hawes-Cut-
ting Act, but I regretted the way it was being done.
Perhaps there was no other way. Quezon was at the exact
center of Philippine power and saw every side. I had risen to a
position above my expectations, but I was still an outsider.
As for Roces, he remained wholeheartedly against Quezon.
I wished I could judge in his fashion, white or black, good or
evil. My trouble was that I expected all my heroes to be perfect,
and heroes, being human, are seldom that.
I was in the throes of this quandary when a surprising invita
tion came from Quezon. He was going back to Washington and
wanted me to go along as his adviser.
From an editor s point of view this was a splendid opportu
nity, since it would place me on the inside of the struggle over
the bill. Roces was willing, and I went with Quezon.
It soon became obvious in Washington that the American
Congressmen and Senators were solidly in favor of the bill as it
192 I Walked with Heroes
was. The Osrox Mission to America was a success. Quezon re
fused to give in. He made up his mind he must fight the military
base clause. The bill, as a specific issue, must be put to a general
vote in the Philippines. I had nothing to say about this. I had
great respect for the opinions of Osmefia and Roxas. Now these
men and Quezon all admirable were deadlocked in opinion.
It was not open enmity, but the coldness grew.
The three of them decided to return to the Philippines by the
eastern route, hoping that a long boat trip around the world
would serve to settle their differences. We visited Paris, Rome,
Singapore, and Hong Kong, and the trip did no good at all. By
the rime we reached Manila the three contestants were barely
speaking.
I managed to stay on good terms with all of them. While I
disapproved of their stubbornness I made no attempts to recon
cile my three traveling companions. That was not my job. I was
along on the world tour as a reporter, and my allegiance was to
Don Alejandro Roces.
Nevertheless the trip had been stimulating. It was my second
time around the world.
In Manila the fight was renewed in deadly earnest; the rift
widened. The Hare-Hawes-Cutting Act was submitted to the
electorate, and Quezon and his men, who opposed it, won the
election.
Quezon promptly began plans for a new independence bill to
be known as the Tydings-McDuffie Act. It was similar to the
first and only the provision concerning military bases was
changed.
The Osmeiia forces raised a great storm against the new bill.
They were powerful men. We heard Quezon was deeply wor
ried about the way things were going. That did not bother me,
for in a series of articles in the Tribune I was carrying on a
steady barrage of criticism against Quezon. Four men had gone
around the world together; now only two remained friends.
But Quezon never allowed personal resentments to stand in
I Walked with Heroes 193
the way of anything he wanted. He invited me to breakfast in
his home. I went braced for a reprimand for having attacked
his policies in the Tribune. Instead he seemed deeply worried
and almost sad.
"Rommy," he began gently, "I have never needed you as
much as I need you now. This is going to be the fight of my life.
If I lose it I am finished."
Something was coming. I waited. "Yes, Mr. President?"
"I need a newspaper," he said, "a nationalistic paper that will
express my views and fight with me. One newspaper chain con
trols public opinion in this country."
"What have you in mind?" I asked.
He became the enthusiast, keen-eyed, boyish. "I d like to see
the Herald reorganized and given a new infusion of blood. That
would give new life to public opinion! The country needs a
paper with a fresh point of view. I don t know anyone who can
run such a paper, Rommy, except you."
I was stunned. I was now in my mid-thirties, when a man
should be permanently established. I was established. My fu
ture was settled. I was editor in chief of a leading chain of news
papers. For the first time in my life I felt secure. There were my
wife and three sons to be considered, for Dick (Ricardo) had
been born. Everything was as I had wished it to be, and here
was Quezon suggesting that I push over all I had built as if it
were a heap of cards.
But what he was offering in exchange, I knew. I muttered
something about having to discuss the offer with my wife and
left him.
That night I talked with Virginia. Her first reaction, based
on affection, was my own. "Don Alejandro has been so good to
us," she said. "Everything we have we owe to him. What will
he say?"
"He won t like it," I said. But I knew it would be worse than
that.
The Roces publishing group was a family affair. The em-
194 I Walked with Heroes
ployees were part of the family. That was the way Don Ale
jandro wanted us to feel, and we did. Then there was his son,
Andong, my close friend and a loyal one. It would not be easy
to break the news to him.
Yes, my future with the Roces family was safe, but it was an
employee s future. The Roces chain was a closed family corpo
ration. It was not the sort of organization in which I could
eventually own a few shares. I had gone as high in the firm as I
would ever go.
There was another important argument in favor of my leav
ing. TVT was an all-powerful chain, which shaped the thought
of the Philippines. I felt the country needed a counteracting
influence if we were to achieve a true democracy. I tried to look
ahead over my own small destiny to that of the Philippines, the
way Quezon looked, far ahead always to the country of the
future. If, in this locking of horns between the Osrox faction
and Quezon, the Osrox side should win it would mean Quezon
would be in need of greater support than ever if he was to main
tain his leadership. And I believed in him as a leader.
With a new newspaper, the policy of which Quezon had as
sured me would be in my hands, I could fight on Quezon s side;
I could be free to campaign for him if needed.
Quezon had promised me an independent paper. That would
give my voice more power than ever before. I had to look for
ward to the country that would be ours. Independence would
not be easy for us. I was convinced that in those first difficult
years of freedom the country would be better off with Quezon
than with Osmena and Roxas.
Added to this was my hero worship of Quezon. I wanted to
be with him, win or lose.
And we might so easily lose. I might be throwing over all
present and future security.
"But at least," I told Virginia, "whether I make good or fail,
at least I ll be striking out for myself." It is every newsman s
dream to run a paper his way.
I Walked with Heroes 195
Virginia understood. She said, "It s your decision. You must
be the judge. Only let me say this, that you ll be starting all over
again."
That was true, and with much to lose.
It took me a week to decide. I would make up my mind and
then panic. I would start for Quezon s office or Don Alejandro s
and get cold feet and turn back. I could not sleep. My poor chil
dren, my wife, what would the change do to them?
But once I was certain I pulled myself together for the big
break and the new beginning and went to Quezon.
"I ve decided," I said. "I m willing to take the chance."
"Good," he said. But he looked stern and unhappy.
We both knew how much he was asking of me and what I
was risking. If he lost his fight he would have little to offer me*
But if he won I would share his victory and his future, wherever
that might lead.
Now I faced the saddest part, that of telling the Roces family
I was leaving. I tried to speak to Don Alejandro but could not,,
and went instead to Andong. It was even worse than telling the
old gentleman. There were tears on both sides. We had been
like brothers.
"Rommy," he pleaded, "have you really thought what this
will mean to you? Do you realize you are throwing away a great
future as the leading editor of the country for the insecurity of
a new paper based on a politician s promise? Why, it s only a
venture! You know how insecure political promises can be.
Think of your family, Rommy! "
"I ve thought of them," I said wretchedly. "I have given a
great deal of thought to this. I know the risk I am taking. If I
fail, I have no one to blame but myself. If I succeed, I hope yore
will be proud that your father gave me my start and that the
finest journalism I ll ever achieve will be due to the training I ve
had from him. Any newspaper honesty and integrity I show in
the future I shall have learned from him. Will you please tell
your father that for me, when you tell him? "
196 I Walked with Heroes
Because I could not bring myself to face Don Alejandro just
then. I did not have the courage to be the one to let him know.
Andong told me, "This will be a bitter disappointment to my
father. In my opinion you are making a terrible mistake. To
leave us for something as vague as a political paper that does not
exist I cannot understand you and my father will never be
able to."
But he said he would break the news for me. That was at
noon.
At four that afternoon I was summoned to Don Alejandro s
office in the TVT building. I was very meek as I entered, in fact
I had spent the hours since leaving Andong losing most of the
confidence Quezon had inspired in me. The old man just sat
looking at me sadly. He was every inch the grandee, but I could
see he was deeply wounded.
"Romulo," he said, "I don t know how to begin. I need not
tell you how disappointed I am. But since this is your decision
I wish you the best of fortune, and if I ever can help you in any
way I will."
When I walked out of his office I was two inches high.
The entire day was one of mourning. That afternoon I called
my staff together, told them what I was doing, and bade them
good-bye. They were men I had chosen and gathered together
during the past half-dozen years on the TVT. I had trained
them and watched them develop into the finest staif in the
Islands.
They all wished me well, but every one of them told me later
that when they heard my plans and thought of everything I was
giving up for what might be no more tangible than a chimera
privately they thought I was a damn fool.
But Quezon, to me, was the Philippines. Once more I threw
over all I had gained and followed him.
Twelve
THE struggle to build a new paper started all over. We wanted
the Herald to be the voice of our nation and the support of Que
zon and MacArthur in all they hoped to do for the Philippines.
I worked hard, but soon found that part of the day was not
enough. The Herald was truly my voice. I could take any side I
believed in. I severed my last link with the University of the
Philippines, for all my life was to be devoted henceforth, so I
believed, to publishing. I resigned as head of my department at
the university and as member of the Board of Regents. All was
sacrificed to this new venture that deserved everything I had
to give.
It was the end of teaching for me. But the editorials I wrote
and the causes I sponsored were teaching in a broader sense, or
so it seemed to me.
Quezon lived up to every promise he had made me. He helped
gather the capital to reorganize the Herald. It was a morning
paper printed in English, and had been named the Herald be
cause it was to be the announcing voice of a new and inde
pendent Philippines.
We eventually won the fight. The people were overwhelm
ingly in support of Quezon. With the Herald s backing, the
Tydings-McDuffie Act for Philippine independence got under
way, and in this same year of the newspaper s reorganization y
1934, the act was approved by Franklin Delano Roosevelt.
At last a definite date had been set. We would be free men in
the Philippines on July 4, 1946. On the day of the signing I
thought many times of my father and grandfather. I wished
they might have known!
197
198 I Walked with Heroes
Freedom was still twelve years away, and much was to hap
pen to the world and America and the Philippines in that space
of time. And much to me.
The careers of MacAithur and Quezon were in the ascend
ancy, and the Herald s star rose with them. We were working
together against the time when the Filipino would be a first-class
citizen in his own land, and there was much for him to learn,
many plans to be laid in advance.
For freedom would not be easy. It never is. It would be more
difficult for the Philippines than for many countries, because
we had to face the fact that the islands, although potentially
rich, had not tapped their resources. We were a poor country
and a small one, and we could not afford to be hurled unpre
pared into competition with countries larger and richer and
more powerful and far better trained. The Tydings-McDuffie
Act meant we could prepare.
So we rejoiced and were anxious on that day, November 1 5,
1935, that saw the inauguration of the Commonwealth Gov
ernment of the Philippines. The greatest crowd that had ever
gathered in our country massed on the Luneta to see Manuel L.
Quezon sworn in as president and Sergio Osmefia as vice-presi
dent of our new commonwealth. Frank Murphy, our good
friend and America s last Governor General, became the first
High Commissioner.
On that day, frankly wiping away tears as were all the others
among the thousands gathered in the park, I had much to look
forward to and much to remember. I could recall by hearsay the
fact that the Philippine Republic and I had been born together.
Then had come the years my country had spent as a territorial
possession of the United States, and now it was a common
wealth. The advance had been great since the days when my
father had crept into our house, gun in hand, in the night after
fighting in the hills against the hated Americans. I remembered
my grandfather s torture at American hands. I thought back
to my childhood, of the patriots whose lives I had studied, the
I Walked with Heroes 199
heroes I had worshiped, the martyrs to our country s freedom.
Had they died without knowing their deaths were worth the
dying, or had they been content to know they died for
freedom?
In that solemn moment, when the Stars and Stripes fluttered
over the Luneta and then beside it, slowly and grandly, rose
the colors of our own Philippine flag the red, white, and blue
in each flag meaning the same truths to two separate peoples, the
white for truth, blue for faith, and red for the blood of our
martyrs I felt then and I feel still that no one who dies for
freedom dies in vain.
At the close of the last century the Philippine Republic had
been born, and now we could look forward to 1946 when it
would be born again.
During the wait for freedom we would continue our training
in democracy under American tutelage. Gradually Filipinos
would supplant Americans in our government, until 1 946 when
we would be completely under Filipino rule.
It was impossible for contemporary Americans, who had al
ways been free, to understand why so many Filipinos wept that
day. Now that Americans know the heavy grief of war and the
threat of the loss of freedom, they can perhaps more fully
understand.
In the next month, December, my wife and I celebrated with
a trip around the world my third, her first. It was sparked by
an invitation from Notre Dame University, off ering me an
honorary degree of Doctor of Laws. Since then I have received
thirty-nine degrees (I tell my sons I am being educated by de
grees) , but this was my first. I was greatly excited by the honor
and so exhilarated by the journey that we decided to continue
on around the world.
My first honorary degree how proud I was of it! Adding to
my pride was the fact that at the same time the honor was
awarded Franklin Delano Roosevelt. A Filipino editor and the
200 I Walked with Heroes
President of the United States spoke on the same platform at
South Bend, Indiana.
To be on the same platform with Roosevelt, to speak with
him, and later to be granted an exclusive interview in Washing
ton meant a great deal to me. I was face to face with a hero. In
my opinion he had saved the United States from revolution
when he took office in 1 93 3 . In my eyes he was a great American
and a great man.
I make this difference because to me the difference is pro
found. Churchill, for example, is a great Englishman. He has
been first and last for Britain, and his loyalty is laid at the feet of
the British lion. He is indeed an English patriot and will be im
mortal as such. However, he has not looked to the freedom of
all nations. In fact, as prime minister he opposed the independ
ence of India, Pakistan, Burma, and Ceylon.
In my speech that day at South Bend I spoke of the relation
ship between the United States and the Philippines. I spoke of
America as "a generous benefactor, a loyal and true friend, and,
if we can honor the debt in no other way, we can pay with our
lives."
That was December 9, 1935. Another December, only a few
years away, we paid that debt with Filipino lives.
My wife and I spent a month of gaiety in New York. Quezon
had just been there and had taken lessons at the Arthur Murray
dancing school. Nothing would suit Virginia but that we should
take lessons. Every morning at ten she dragged me off to the
dance studio, where we practiced the tango, waltz, and rhumba,
so that in the evenings we could relax on the dance floor. It was
a gay restful trip the rest of the way around the world, and we
returned to Manila and the family fired with enthusiasm for
travel.
In 1940 my wife and I were planning another trip. We
wanted to be the first Filipino couple to fly around the world,
an innocent ambition nipped in the bud by Pearl Harbor.
I Walked with Heroes 201
Since I had left the TVT chain to fight beside Quezon, he
and I had worked closely together and pursued a friendship
that often threatened to go on the rocks. Now that he was
President of the Commonwealth he lived with his family in
Malacafiag and the doors of the Palace were never closed to me.
I supported him with the Herald in all that he did which I felt
was right, and as far as our country s future was concerned
he was never anything but right. But we were both quick
tempered and there were minor disputes along the way.
Misunderstandings went back over the years. There was the
perfectly ridiculous affair of the daylight saving time dispute.
I don t know why Quezon took it into his head that a country
with the hot climate and long days of Luzon should require
daylight saving, but he did, and as president he was able to put
the order into effect. As a result we rose in the dark and went
to bed in daylight, and it was all very silly.
We received many letters of protest against this nonsense, so
I wrote an article stating my views. I knew Quezon would not
like it, and the day it appeared I made my appearance at the Los
Tamaraos Polo Club with some trepidation. Whenever a con
troversial article or an editorial attack of any kind appeared, all
our friends, and some not so friendly, congregated at the club
to note the general effect. I was greeted by all with congratula
tions. Friends slapped me on the back to say: "Good, Rommy,
it s time to tell the old man some truths he should know." That
was before the "old man" arrived. A few minutes later he came
in with Major Nieto, his handsome aide.
Quezon was in evening clothes and looked very angry. There
was sudden silence in the room, and in it his voice could be
heard saying fiercely, "Is Romulo here?"
I wished I were anywhere else, but I meekly admitted my
presence.
He fixed me with that angry eagle stare that could subdue
the bravest of his enemies. Only I was not his enemy. I was not
202 I Walked with Heroes
going to be cowed, not even when he started in on me full
blast before all our friends.
"Romulo, who gave you the authority to speak for the Fili
pino people? You have never been elected to public office, yet
you dare criticize a man who has been elected by the people! "
He went on into an angry dissertation on the advantages of
daylight saving, then, suddenly deepening his fury, he un
leashed his wrath on me in personal terms. Every now and then
he would turn to his audience, the same audience that a few
minutes before had hailed my editorial, and ask, "Don t you
think I am right?" And everyone nodded.
"Excuse me, Mr. President," I interrupted, and I walked
away from him and joined a group of ladies.
For the rest of the evening I ignored him. He tried to speak
several times but I avoided him.
The next morning I was in my Herald office when the office
boy entered.
"The President is here," he began nervously, as Quezon came
in and brushed him aside. Quezon was flushed, he wore riding
boots and carried a crop. My first thought was, he is here to
beat me! He had once physically attacked another editor who
had roused his ire.
I stood up behind my desk. "Mr. President," I began.
But he waved me down with a gesture of the whip. "I came
to apologize, Rommy!" Then in the same breath he burst out
querulously, "But you were rude to me! You turned your back
to me at the club last night!"
I had myself in hand by then. How variable he was, how
winning and angry by turns!
"I preferred being rude to being disrespectful," I told him.
"If I had stayed with you I would have said something critical,
something I would be sure to regret, and to me, Mr. President,
you will always be a leader to respect, so I chose to leave you
without saying a word. I am sorry, but I had to do it."
And then he was his gay, charming, irresistible self. "Let s
I Walked with Heroes 203
forget it Rommy. Why don t you and Virginia come to lunch
at the Palace tomorrow? Oh, and about daylight saving, Fm
going to repeal the order!"
A final gay flick of the riding crop and he was gone.
How could one analyze such a man! The variations in his
mood were mercurial. He changed at a word. He had tubercu
losis and I later learned this disease can breed suspicion and
jealousy and changing moods. I learned to expect such rifts in
the fabric of my idol, but the flaming personality of Quezon
was never to fade. He was a great man, one of the greatest I
have ever known.
And still there were times when he left me bewildered and
a little resentful, not knowing what to think of him. I was a
pawn in a game too intricate for me to comprehend.
There was the time he had summoned me from my desk at
the Herald to his summer palace at Baguio.
"Rommy," he began, in that flattering tone of confidence
that is one of the strongest weapons of those in power, "Jose
Avelino (Secretary of Labor) is tendering his resignation. Pub
lish this in the Herald. Say you have the report from an authori
tative source but don t mention me."
So I published it a big scoop and what a hullabaloo re
sulted!
Avelino was a close friend of Jose Yulo, Speaker of the
House, who telephoned me. "Romulo, who gave you such a
story? Avelino is with me and he says it is not true. He has no
intention of resigning."
I muttered the usual newspaperman s defense about not be
traying my sources.
The next day Quezon called. He sounded so pompous and
stern and unlike himself that I knew Avelino and possibly Yulo
were with him. "Romulo," he began, formally, "it is the height
of irresponsibility for you to print such a story stating that
Avelino has resigned when he has not. He has no intention of
204 I Walked with Heroes
resigning and why should he? Where could we get a better
man? From whom did you get such a canard?"
I stammered something, but he was berating me and did not
hear. "You should not have printed that story, Romulo, without
consulting Avelino or me. Please deny it and credit the denial
to me." And he slammed the receiver down.
I hung up in my turn. Something had fallen from my sky. I
had been "had," and would never know why. Apparently Que
zon had wanted to ease Avelino out of office or had some ad
vantage to gain by threatening to do so, and then had changed
his mind.
This happened when I had been about twenty-seven years
old, still ridden by the idealism of youth, and it was a wrench
to me to see so close at hand what politics could be and what
wiles a man had to use to make himself president of a common
wealth.
And still, no matter what his reasons were for this bewilder
ing maneuver, I can be certain now that in the long run Quezon
was right. Politics was a slow-moving and intricate game of
chess and he was a champion whose eye was on the play many
moves ahead, with no thought for the pawns who fell along
the way.
On another occasion he sent for me to visit him at Baguio.
Again that flattering charm and confidence was unleashed that
can capture the young and trusting and even the old and wary.
"Romulo, you know the Senatorial elections are to be held
soon. I want you to be a member of the Senate. Get ready to
be a candidate for our party."
This announcement came out of a clear sky. I was speechless.
The idea was completely strange to me. I had never thought of
myself in a political office. I was the reporter, the observer.
Here was Quezon announcing I was to enter the inner circle.
I could be one of the men of power about whom I wrote in the
Herald. I was completely fascinated, trapped.
I Walked with Heroes 205
But I stammered protests. I was too young, still in my twen
ties, an editor, nobody knew of me
Quezon waved my protests back. He never wasted words.
"Listen to me and don t argue. Two of the Manila newspapers
are taking a straw vote on the Senatorial elections and I want
you to win that vote. I will watch these two straw votes closely.
I want you to win so that we can use your victory as a base
for the plans I have for you. I m going to groom you for your
future, Rommy, and this is the beginning."
And there it was again, the vague glittering plans held ever
ahead of me by Quezon, the carrot dangled before the young
and hopeful donkey. Excited at last, I was fired with energy.
We won both straw votes overwhelmingly. I came out first in
both lists, the Free Press and La Vanguardia.
I was keyed to fever point with plans. I would be the "boy
Senator," the youngest ever to serve in that august body whose
affairs I had reported so faithfully since I was fifteen. Election
was nearing and my friends worked harder than before.
Then, three days before the convention, Quezon sent word
for me to come to him at once at Malacanang.
My wife had a curious reaction to this call. She said, "I have
an idea he is going to tell you not to run."
I was indignant. "What nonsense! How can he? The idea
came from him. Fm practically in office! "
In the Palace I found the President still in pajamas and still
in bed. He got up and put his arm over my shoulders in a
fatherly gesture. "You know, Rommy, you are very young,"
he said gently. "I ve been thinking your future over carefully
and I ve decided it is best not to hurry you. You know the old
saying: A man in a rush gets nowhere."
I found myself thinking numbly, Virginia was right! "If you
are speaking of the convention . . . ," I began.
"Yes, I am, Rommy. Governor Daniel Maramba is from the
same district as yours. He came to talk to me yesterday; also the
leaders of Pangasinan and Nueva Ecija. He has been Governor
206 I Walked with Heroes
of Pangasinan and he is getting old. This will be the last chance
he will ever have to be a Senator, and he wants to be a Senator.
We must consider the values."
That warm, beautiful voice which could charm immense
audiences was lulling me into a state of hypnosis.
"Maramba has solid political backing (which I knew I did
not have), and remember, Rommy, he is old and he needs the
job. He does not have the time ahead you have, or your future.
You have a wonderful position as the Herald s editor and you
are the highest salaried newspaperman in Manila. You have a
lifetime ahead of you. So why not defer to an old man and let
him run in your place? You won t lose anything by waiting.
Your time will come."
I hunted words through heartbreak. "I never thought of be
ing in the Senate, Mr. President. It was your idea from the
beginning. You remember you sent for me in Baguio. Since you
made the suggestion it s your privilege to cancel it "
I was speaking with pain, not so much for the loss of a dream
as for the crumbling of an ideal. I had been a decoy pigeon drag
ging a simulated broken wing through the dust, and now both
wings were broken. Once more I had been used, for what pur
pose I did not know. To draw votes, perhaps, from a more
powerful opponent of the favored Maramba? I would never
know.
Quezon saw my hurt. His voice was crisp and businesslike as
he said, "Tell your friends you are going to defer in favor of
Maramba and ask them to back him to the hilt."
And then, suddenly gentle, he said softly, "You know I am
always behind you! And honestly, Rommy, I need you more
where you are now than in the Senate. I can take care of the
Senate."
And I believed him. I would always believe him.
I pulled myself together. "Thank you, Mr. President. As
you say, the future is ahead of me. I will stay wherever you
think I can serve our country best."
I Walked with Heroes 207
But I didn t feel that assurance as I walked out of the Palace.
I walked like an old man. I was a candidate who had been de
feated even before he started to run.
When I went home Virginia took one look at me and knew.
"I was right?" she asked.
I said wearily, "You bet you were!"
She stopped looking tragic and became angry. "He can t do
this to you! He got you into this! It was all his idea! It isn t
fair."
I told her, old in wisdom, "It s politics."
Now I really knew what politics were, and I never wanted
to be part of the game again. I told that to Virginia, and stressed
the fact that I had entered the race unwillingly in the first place.
Quezon had charmed me into running. I told her I had seen and
heard enough of politics and politicians to last me the rest of
my life.
Virginia agreed with every word. My sheltered bride had
shown more insight into political intrigue than I.
Maramba was elected, and died before he could be sworn in
as Senator. Another election was held and another candidate
elected. I was no longer interested.
My life was active. I had no time to brood over what Que
zon had done to me. Slowly my resentment cleared, as I realized
I did not know what threads were being drawn in that long
pattern for the future being woven by Quezon. I felt that no
matter what he did or how greatly I might doubt him, one thing
I could never doubt whatever he did, he did for our country.
He was our country. As its leader he has no peer.
I felt that then and the feeling has lasted.
Slowly the hurt died and respect returned. I had been a very
small frog in the political puddle, and if I had been stepped on
no personal harm had been intended. Quezon remained my
leader and adviser. He liked me and he showed it in many ways.
If he misled and misused me it was for larger purposes I did not
as yet have the political insight to see. And I wanted to know.
2o8 I Walked with Heroes
I am a curious person. I could not resist trying to find out what
was going on in the political realms high over my head.
My wife was less forgiving.
Two days after the convention a party was held at Mala-
canang. The President danced with Virginia and while dancing
she gave him a piece of her mind. She is a logical woman and her
arguments were pointed. To the tune of soft music my forth
right young wife let our president have it between the eyes.
"I just want you to know," she told Quezon, "that our disap
pointment is not in my husband s not being nominated, but in
you!"
And Quezon answered, "Rommy will be something more
than a Senator, you can be sure of that. I ll make this up to him
in other ways."
My wife took this with a grain of salt, but she was pleased.
She told me, complacently, "I think Quezon s conscience is
pinching him!"
She was evidently right again, for the next day he sent for
me. He seemed aloof and uneasy.
He said, "I am going to speak to the publisher about doubling
your salary "
I had to control my temper. I wanted to burst out in a furious
rage. But my respect for him was my restraint. I wanted to tell
him:
Are you trying to buy me off, Mr. President? You don t have
to do that! You don t have to talk to Madrigal and get me more
money! Tm satisfied with what Tm getting. There are greater
values than those made by money and power!
But I didn t. No one should ever speak to the head of a coun
try in such a manner.
I went home and wrote an indignant letter telling him what
I thought and carried it back to his office. I handed it over to
Jorge B. Vargas, his secretary. No President anywhere could
have had a more loyal, honest, and competent secretary than
Vargas was to Quezon. He knew the administrative law inside
I Walked with Heroes 209
out. He had besides perfect command of the English language.
"Please give this personally to President Quezon," I told him.
"Don t put it in your files and forget it. You can read it if you
like." I had left the envelope unsealed.
Vargas took out the letter and read it, then gave me a long,
curious look. "I ll see that the President gets it," he said.
I waited for an answer, becoming more f aint-hearted by the
hour as I remembered the violence of my words. But as the
days passed and no reply came from Quezon I decided he had
forgiven me and the subject was not mentioned again.
Not until after the war, after Quezon s death did I learn he
had never received the letter. My friend Vargas had a better
temper and more discretion than I.
So things went on as before. The politician was always in
Quezon, but he made up for it, and wounds would heal over
and we would forget and forgive. And there was his wife, Dona
Aurora, a saint of a woman, and his two lovable daughters,
Aurora (Baby) and Zenaida (Nini), to help those who were
at temporary outs with him to forgive.
I continued to have my small troubles with Quezon, and he
continued to be the fatherly adviser. In moments of national
stress I would see the true patriot, then love, respect, and rever
ence would come rushing back.
He was behind me with all the weight of his office when, in
1937, the success of the Herald inspired the creation of a new
newspaper chain. Again the struggle began. Money was raised
and a new combine, the DMHM Newspapers, was formed,
with Quezon as its backer. The chain was first organized under
Vicente Madrigal who had headed the group that had reor
ganized the Herald and then sold to a group led by J. Amado
Araneta, a sugar industrialist and one of my best friends. An
enterprising, far-seeing entrepreneur, Araneta was never afraid
to venture in new fields and he was usually successful. He had
built the profitable Araneta Coliseum, the largest of its kind in
the world, with a modern shopping center around it, and he
210 I Walked with Heroes
also controls a large segment of the sugar industry of the Philip-
pines. This new enterprise, DMHM, was to support Quezon in
his fight for the Tydings-McDuffie Act. It consisted of the
Herald, a morning paper printed in English; and the Debate, in
Spanish; Mabuhay, a morning paper printed in Tagalog; and
the Monday Mail, a weekly printed in English.
I was publisher-editor, with a share in the stock, of the
DMHM chain from 1937 to 1941. They were wonderful years,
filled with a sense of achievement and personal happiness. It
seemed to me my life held everything one man could wish for,
but over this happiness hung the shadow that was the gathering
fear of war.
Quezon s promises of mysterious advancements did not end.
Several times he said to me, "Rommy, you have a great person
ality and you can do much for our country and the sooner we
get you into politics the better."
I had learned to say nothing.
Just before the war we were in his Pasay home and Quezon
turned to me suddenly. "Rommy, just between ourselves, I
think it s time you started into politics. Since you re the idol of
our English-speaking youth I m going to make you Secretary
of Public Instruction. But don t say anything to anybody about
this until I have all my plans laid."
The following day I met Chief Justice Jose Abad Santos as
he was leaving Malacafiang Palace. He stopped me to say,
"Be ready. The President told me confidentially he plans to ap
point you as Secretary of Public Instruction. Congratulations,
Rommy."
Once my heart would have been set pounding by such news
coming from one as close to the President and as prudent as
Justice Santos. But I remembered the Senate fiasco and said
nothing. I was not to be left hanging out on a limb again. By
this time I had four sons to consider, for Roberto, our Bobby,
had been born.
Then a few weeks later the President mentioned the subject
I Walked with Heroes 211
again. We were in his car on our way to the university where
he was to speak to the ROTC cadets. As if he had only then
brought up the matter Quezon said, "Rommy, if nothing else
develops I m going to make you Secretary of Public Instruc
tion."
But something else did develop. A few weeks later the Philip
pines was plunged into war.
Thirteen
THEY say the decade between thirty and forty is the age of
youth, and that between forty and fifty the youth of age.
The start of the forties the century s and mine was the
nadir of my life. At this period a man should be close to the
summit he has set his eyes upon in youth, and I felt I had arrived
there. All I asked was to retain my personal happiness and to
use well the power given me as head of a newspaper chain.
But in the next ten years I was to experience the heights and
depths of living; many lifetimes would be crowded into this
decade.
Why does disaster seem most often to strike when one is
sure all is well? Almost overnight all I loved was lost to me, all
I had worked for was gone, and I was left without a family or
a country or a home.
Still this tragedy was to bring me closer to two who have
meant much to me, MacArthur and Quezon.
Of course there were premonitions of war. One week before
Pearl Harbor I had toured Indonesia and had prophesied that
Japan was getting ready to strike.
I talked in secret session with men who represented seventy-
five million Indonesians, and all were ready to stand by America
because they felt America was the only white nation they could
trust.
What has become of that Asian trust? How has it been lost,
and in so brief a time?
At that time wherever I went in the Far East I was questioned
eagerly by men longing to be free. "Is it true what they say
212
I Walked with Heroes 2 1 3
about America?" they would ask me. "Is it true that America
allows Filipinos in the Philippines to vote, and permits Fili
pinos to represent their countrymen in the Philippines?"
And when I told them, yes, it was true, they would sigh with
longing and say, "How lucky you are under America."
Recently on trips to the Far East I have been queried and the
questions are very different. Now they ask, "Is it true, these
stories about America? Is it a fact that men of colored skin are
not regarded as equals and must take humble work for little
wages and not eat at the same tables as whites? Is it true that in
some parts of America men of color are more fearful of white
men than we have ever been in Asia?"
Before Pearl Harbor the people in Asia blamed the imperial
istic press for keeping the truth about them from America. Now
they blame a sector of the American press for distorting the
truth about their ideals and ridiculing them as men and dreamers
of the dream.
This change has come about within the past ten years.
The qualms that assailed me on my prewar tour of the Far
East convinced me that Japan was at the boiling point. These
experiences were incorporated in the series of articles that won
the Pulitzer prize; and later in articles and speeches and books.
I shall not repeat them here. Suffice it to say that while one can
anticipate disaster one is never fully prepared for it. I forget
what I can of the war in the Pacific and the tragedy that swept
over the Philippines and my small personal life, but still there
are memories, untold before this, that will stay with me as long
as I live.
Sometimes I am again overwhelmed by the sickening despair
of those days, when we were trapped with MacArthur s forces
in the tunnel on Corregidor; and I find myself wondering what
would have happened to the Philippines and to America if
Quezon had yielded to that despair and left MacArthur s side
and surrendered the Philippines to Japan.
214 I Walked with Heroes
These were tense hours, while the trapped President of the
Philippines pondered which was best for his country neu
tralism (and that was what Quezon really advocated) or the
American way.
Quezon had been faithful to America. Japan had offered
every inducement to lure him to its side, which the Japanese
argued was best for the Philippines and all Asia. Quezon could
not be blamed for wondering if perhaps they were not right
Every report that reached our rocky perch in the bay told of
disaster and death. Through our telescope we watched Manila
being smashed into rubble, while from Bataan came the daily
death lists that told us the best of our youth was dying in a
cause we knew now was hopeless.
Quezon, from his hospital bed in the tunnel, coughing and
weakened by the old lung lesion that had opened in that damp
confinement, had ordered me again and again to besieged Ba
taan to carry his words of courage to our boys. And I, crouch
ing in foxholes under fire, read to starving, sick lads who were
to die the promise made by America s president:
The world will long remember what you, the people of the
Philippines, are doing and what you have been doing since this
war began. I renew my solemn pledge to you that your freedom
will be redeemed and your independence established and pro
tected. . . . Stand firm, people of the Philippines, your day is
coining.
And they believed, and went on fighting and dying for free
dom.
I have another brief memory of a battlefield on Bataan among
the dead and dying of hearing an American stretcher bearer call
to another, who was about to give aid to a wounded Filipino:
"Hey, take this one first. He s white"
Strange, sad memory of a bloodied peninsula contested foot
by foot by Orientals, who for the first rime in the history of
Ask were fighting beside white men against Orientals.
I Walked with Heroes 215
The thoughtless words were spoken under stress, but I re
member the hurt in them and the look on the face of the
wounded soldier who was left on the ground.
But the message I had read in the foxholes that day the
pledge made by President Roosevelt to our fighters has also
been remembered, and its promise fulfilled by America. The
lads who fought for America and lived are now free men.
I remember evenings on Corregidor when Manuel Roxas and
I, unable to bear the confinement of the tunnel any longer, sat
out on the Rock under stars hidden by gunsmoke and amid the
present violence planned a glowing future for the postwar
Philippines. Earlier Roxas had been a hero of mine in another
way. I had criticized him in my newspapers, but I admired him
for his brilliance and his patriotism. When he had founded the
"Bagong Katipunan" I toured the provinces with him to ex
plain the purposes of the organization. It was to arouse the spirit
of nationalism among our people, principally the youth, and
to instill in them the protectionist spirit.
Now we were close again, under fire.
When the war ended and MacArthur came back to the
Philippines as its liberator one of the first things he did was to
imprison those Filipinos, who with Roxas had served as mem
bers of the Japanese puppet cabinet set up during the occupa
tion. He did not, however, include Roxas among them, and
Roxas was set free.
I had thought it a mistake at the time for Americans to sen
tence men to prison for having worked with the Japanese gov
ernment. The defense of those who were with Roxas was that
they served in order to prevent as much ill treatment as possible
of their countrymen at Japanese hands.
Evidently the majority of Filipinos agreed with this, for those
who had collaborated with the Japanese during the war were
elected to high offices in the Philippines after the war.
These men had not taken part in the long fight. They had
not been hunted and in hiding and without food. When war
2 1 6 I Walked with Heroes
ended they were rested and well cared for and they were avail
able. One cannot judge the reactions of men at the mercy of
an army of occupation.
No such temptations were put in my way. My job on Cor-
regidor was to broadcast to a captive country and encourage
it to keep up the resistance. I was the voice of the Voice of
Freedom, the radio station in the tunnel, as the Japanese were
aware. That made me a marked man. Rewards were promised
to any who would betray the hiding places of my wife and
children. This kept me in a state of terror.
Every broadcast that came from the mainland, every message
arriving by "bamboo telegraph" increased my fear. I had no
idea where my family were hiding or how long they would be
safe. How they were living I did not know, nor would I know
for three years and a half.
Day after day I broadcast over our makeshift radio the words
and courage of the stalwart, indomitable MacArthur and the
frail, indomitable Quezon. From captive Manila came word
that Filipinos were being executed for listening to the Voice of
Freedom and printing the broadcasts for those who had no
radios. All reports that came to us from behind the Japanese
lines were grim and frightening, like a horror film seen faintly
and all the more terrifying because so much was hidden.
We grew more bitter day by day on the Rock, with the daily
threat of death, with filth and gangrene and hunger, and above
all the tormenting suspicion that we were being let down.
Americans and Filipinos fighting together shared that fear.
Where were America s planes, which we had been promised,
which we had watched and prayed for? What had really hap
pened at Clark Field and Pearl Harbor?
Trapped humans gnaw on conjecture. Questions and suspi
cions fed the hopeless bitterness of life on the Rock.
Why, at Clark Field near Manila, so we asked one another,
had our pknes been waiting on the field that day, lined up in
formation, ready for the Japanese? Why, after all the warnings,
I Walked with Heroes 217
the wrecking of America s fleet at Pearl Harbor? And why,
since this evil was done and the planes at Pearl Harbor and Clark
Field demolished, why were not other American pknes being
sent to save some of the young lives being offered up hour after
hour on the Rock and at Bataan?
For a long time I was too bitter and too angry to see the truth,
and by the time I did the war was over.
Now, across the safe gulf of the years, we know that orders
had reached Clark Field to get the planes into the air that morn
ing, and that they did take off and they stayed up until noon.
But when lunchtime came the fliers followed their usual custom
of grounding their planes and going off to mess hall in a group.
This was a habit the Japanese knew only too well, so it was at
noon, while the fliers sat at lunch, that the Japanese planes
swooped down on Clark Field.
There was a rumor that MacArthur had hoped to send these
very planes to attack the Japanese base at Formosa and forestall
this attack, which had been expected, but that for some reason
his directive had been delayed. Why had this power been with
held from our hero, we wanted to know? And we asked one
another, is it true that General MacArthur s directive was de
layed intentionally?
But the most frequent question, and the bitterest, was always:
Where are our pknes?
Later, of course, the actual facts were revealed. In our trap
on the Rock we could not know of the tremendous offensive
America was concentrating in Europe. Marshall and Eisen
hower needed all-out support over there. Enemy submarines
were concentrated on the floor of the Atlantic. America s fleet
had been destroyed at Pearl Harbor. Washington was desper
ately building up America s defenses and offensives where they
were needed most. America could not spread its offensive across
two oceans. The Pacific problem would have to wait.
So there were no planes to spare for the defense of the Philip
pines.
2 1 8 I Walked with Heroes
On our pinpoint in the Pacific we asked questions and were
given no answers. Among those who questioned with growing
despair was Quezon.
And one day in the tunnel Manuel Roxas came to me. He was
one of the important three of our Filipino group in exile with
MacArthur; Osmefk, Roxas, and Quezon. I had a feeling then
that sometime he would be President of the Philippines. He had
all the qualities of a national leader.
Now he spoke to me in confidence and there were tears in
his eyes. "Carlitos, something serious has happened. President
Quezon wants to go back to Manila."
"To the Japanese?" I could not believe it.
" Yes, he has drafted a letter to President Roosevelt saying he
wished the Philippines to take a neutral position. He is asking
for a treaty between Japan and the United States to neutralize
the Philippines. Since the United States is practically defeated
in the Pacific and the American Navy has abandoned us he
believes we should surrender. Osmena and I have tried to argue
him out of this, but he is determined. He wants a guarantee
from the United States and Japan that neither will molest the
Philippines, so that we can return to Manila."
"But why?" was all I could say. "Why?"
"Because Quezon believes this is the only way the Philip
pines can be saved from total destruction. This war is between
Japan and the United States. Let them fight, but not the Fili
pinos, he keeps saying. Osmefia and I tell him that this means
desertion on our part and that in the end it will be bad for our
country, but he says he is only concerned with what Filipinos
are suffering now."
I asked stupidly, "What does General MacArthur say?"
"The General says, if this is what President Quezon wants
he will transmit the message to President Roosevelt. But I tell
you, Carlitos, surrender is the worst thing that can happen to
the Filipinos. It will brand us as cowards who prefer comfort
I Walked with Heroes 219
to freedom. We will be humiliated all over the world, and
everything Bataan has meant to us will be lost."
I felt stupid, unable to express an opinion. I could only say,
"He is a sick man." But was Quezon s stand once again an in
dication of his prescience, his sixth political sense, his un
quenchable love for his people? I did not know.
We both thought of Quezon, coughing in the foul air of the
tunnel, with his frail body hungering for the food and physical
comforts of Malacanang Palace just across the bay. No wonder
he craved the peace of body and heart that could be won by
such a little thing as a few words sent from one president to
another. Roxas and I talked the problem over from every angle.
Unquestionably this decision was right for the sick man. What
was right for the Philippines, the country Quezon had always
put ahead of self? We could come to no decision.
A few hours later Vice-President Osmeiia sent for me. The
tall, slender, studious man who was second in command in our
government looked sad and stern.
"Romulo," he said, "get ready to leave. I am taking you and
Major Stevenot with me. Quezon is going back to Manila."
Major Stevenot was on MacArthur s staif. Before the war he
was president and general manager of the Philippine Long
Distance Telephone Company, an American business executive
well-liked by the Filipinos.
"When he returns to Manila," Osmeiia explained, "we will
take a submarine and go to the United States and set up our
government in exile in Washington. Because I shall never sur
render. Quezon thinks the patriotic thing to do is to give up.
That is his right. But I think the opposite."
Osmeiia, the thoughtful, withdrawn student, was a flashing-
eyed warrior I had never seen before.
I told him, "I am with you. But I should like to discuss this
with the President."
No suggestion was made concerning an appointment with
Quezon. I was not a participant in the discussions. I was on the
220 I Walked with Heroes
outside looking in. I retired with this newest worry to my desk
in the tunnel and prepared my broadcast for the evening.
It was a blockbuster of a broadcast, if I may say so. I was
desperate and pulled no punches. I declared the Filipinos were
fighting as never before, determined to hold on and keep faith
in America.
Certain Filipinos, I hinted, were beginning to have cold feet.
That was not true of the fighters, I said. We were going to
fight Japan to the end, to the last man.
Quezon sent for me directly the broadcast ended. He had
been listening and he was very angry.
"Romulo," he began furiously, his feeble voice interrupted
by coughing, "what are you trying to do?"
I told him. "I feel I am expressing the way the soldiers feel
on Bataan when they are risking their lives to keep their faith
in freedom."
He interrupted. "Don t you know the only thing we can do
is to go back to Manila? What have we left to fight for? Do you
remember when I was urging the National Defense Act and the
Americans were all against it? Do you remember how their
newspapers have ridiculed MacArthur and our army? They
promised us that as long as the United States flag flew over the
Philippines we would be safe, that nobody would dare attack
us. Well, that flag is down now and the Japanese flag is over
Manila and where are we? Left with no one on our side any
more, with no help from America; left in a hole, in a trap . . .
ridiculed and deserted. ... It is true our boys are fighting on
Bataan and with what? Inadequate arms, rice doled out by
handfuls . . . they are dying "
His voice broke. He went on. The patriot who loved the
Philippines first and foremost was talking.
"I tell you our boys are dying. Our country is being de
stroyed. Do you expect me to continue this sacrifice? The fight
between the United States and Japan is not our fight. I want to
stop this murder. I want to go back to Manila and try to pro-
I Walked with Heroes 221
tect the Filipinos, our people, our own people, Romulo, not
America."
I said, "But this is against everything you said before the
war."
"Of course it is," Quezon said fiercely. There were high
spots of red on his cheeks; he was a sick man. "Because now we
are dying. Now we are in defeat. And why? Because we are
not getting protection from those who promised us protection.
America is not sending help. We must try to save ourselves and
to hell with America."
What arguments were left? Quezon had been the idol of our
young Filipinos, and now that youth was being butchered with
no defenses given them, nothing but unfulfilled promises. His
illness was aggravated by the growing death lists. When on the
Rock Americans in uniform were openly bitter, it is not to be
wondered that the head of a nation in exile exceeded them in
despair. There was not a man in uniform who was not certain
by this time that the fight to hold the Philippines was hopeless.
And still, Americans and Filipinos were fighting on, and
together.
"Sir," I said, "what of the long-distance viewpoint you are
always citing? It is true that this is a fight between America and
Japan, but it is also true that America is fighting for ideals that
are also our ideals. We are not fighting for America but for
ourselves."
I cannot forget his anger. "What good are ideals to boys who
are dying? Don t you realize, Romulo, that every single drop
of blood shed by every Filipino boy there on Bataan is on my
conscience, that it is I, their president, who sent them there?
No, I am determined to go back to Manila. I am writing to Pres
ident Roosevelt; Chief Justice Santos is helping me. I want
President Roosevelt to know how I feel, as the leader of boys
without arms or defenses." Then, suddenly, he turned on me.
"What do you think?"
It was a surprise question but my answer was ready. "Mr.
222 I Walked with Heroes
President, you may be right. I understand why you feel as you
do. But as I said before, I think you should first consider the
long-range view. I still believe America is fighting for freedom,
and that in behalf of a distant tomorrow we can t back out
now."
"But why?" Quezon spoke nervously, like a man close to
panic. "When neutrality for the Philippines will keep both
America and Japan away from us and insure peace for us, when
it will stop this butchery of our youth?"
"No, Mr. President." On this point I was positive. "If Japan
wins, we will be under Japan. You know the tactics of the Co-
Prosperity Sphere."
But Quezon seemed unable to consider this. "I still think
surrender is best. It will stop the destruction, stop the dying.
I can t sleep thinking of those boys across the bay. I ordered
them there. I kept them on Bataan. Their lives are my responsi
bility. No, I cannot sleep." His soul was in agony.
His look was haunted. He was a sick man, ridden with guilt.
He looked very ill. I heard his coughing and looked at the damp
stone walls, and could not wonder that his dream of peace lay
far outside of the tunnel. I could not argue against such despair.
Nobody could question that it was the patriot in him talking.
I went to MacArthur. I told him I felt we were facing a crisis.
He and Quezon had been close, and I hoped he would be able to
control the situation. He refused to try to influence Quezon.
"I have my own views, Carlos," MacArthur told me, "but I
think Manuel is entitled to his. He wants to correspond with
the President of the United States in this matter, and I have
promised to transmit anything he has to say."
"But what do you personally. . . ?" I began.
MacArthur s answer was crisp. "You want to know what to
expect of me, Carlos. I will continue fighting. Manuel can do
as he chooses. He is your people s leader. I stay here."
There were dark days after that for Roxas and the others
close to Quezon. I belonged in MacArthur s department, but
I Walked with Heroes 223
I was kept informed of the situation. MacArthur refused to
discuss the matter. He continued his policy of hands off, de
termined not to influence Quezon one way or the other. He
knew his friend. He knew the best policy to follow with Que
zon was to permit him to make up his own mind.
Quezon s message was written and sent to Roosevelt. An
answer was received and decoded. Quezon read the decoded
cable.
Roxas told me the contents. The message ran like this: "If
that is the way you feel you have a perfect right to surrender,
but I shall give the United States Army orders to continue fight-
ing."
"And Quezon s reaction?" I asked.
Roxas smiled. "Quezon is a fighting man and Roosevelt s was
a fighting reply. Quezon has said nothing, but I do not think he
will surrender now. He isn t the kind to let Americans do our
fighting for us."
Next morning, stepping out of the tunnel for a breath of
fresh air, I met Osmefia on the same errand. As we stood sniffing
the salty, cordite-scented air of the bay it seemed to me Os-
mena looked more at peace than he had for days.
He said gravely, "I believe our President has changed his
mind."
I knew then the crisis was over. If Quezon had surrendered
and Osmefia had carried out his threat to go to Washington as
head of our government in exile I would have gone with him.
By now we would be on our way, under the Pacific in a sub
marine, seeking the western coast of America and dodging
enemy submarines. I shivered at the thought. Even bomb-
blasted Corregidor was better than that.
Since then I have thought often of this struggle between
Roosevelt and Quezon, of Quezon s willingness to yield and
Roosevelt s telling him to go ahead, American soldiers would
fight on. Would the Filipino soldiers have stayed with the
American fighters or would they have given up?
224 I Walked with Heroes
It is my opinion that if Quezon had capitulated, the Filipino
soldiers would have continued to fight beside the Americans.
They did not stop fighting even after Bataan fell and the Rock
was turned over to the Japanese.
When I was born, the Filipinos were fighting America and
the fight for freedom continued for three years. Now they
were fighting again, for and with America. The American flag
was down in the Philippines, but even after the country was
captured the Filipinos kept fighting and helping to prepare for
MacArthur s promised return.
Quezon, his family, and staff were rescued from the Rock
and set up our government in exile in America.
MacArthur was ordered from the Rock to direct strategy
from the safer headquarters at Melbourne, for of what use is a
captured commander? He went with reluctance and after
twice refusing, the true commander who hated leaving his
men. I stayed on the Rock with General Wainwright, broad
casting over the Voice of Freedom and hoping against hope that
somewhere, somehow my wife and children would hear my
voice and my promises that help would come. I still believed.
I still urged all my fellow Filipinos to believe that despite death
and delay freedom would come to the Philippines.
My wife and sons remained lost to me. No word came. Luzon
was held by the enemy. I could only hope my family was safely
hidden somewhere in the Luzon hills. I had no knowledge of
where they were living or how or even if they were living
through those more than three long years of war.
I was taken off the Rock the day Bataan fell. By MacArthur s
orders, at Quezon s request I was flown in a rickety, patched-
together crate under fire over Manila Bay to arrive at Mac-
Arthur s headquarters in Australia, and finally in America, as
"the last man off Bataan."
So little was I the soldier that at the risk of a belated court-
martial I must relate how in San Francisco I read the dispatches
I Walked with Heroes 225
given me by General MacArthur to present to Secretary of
War Stimson and President Quezon in Washington. It did not
occur to me military dispatches were to remain unread until
they reached their destination. I knew the information con
tained within concerned me, and I was curious.
The contents were balm to my troubled state. With pleased
surprise I read I had been promoted from lieutenant colonel to
full colonel. I rushed off to a San Francisco tailor specializing
in military wear and bought out his modest supply of lapel in
signia, the four-starred shield I was entitled to wear as Mac-
Arthur s aide-de-camp.
Evidently my purchase led the tailor to expect a rush of
similar orders, for the following year when I was once more
in San Francisco and dropped into his shop he informed me
ruefully that after my visit he had ordered dozens of this in
signia and none had sold!
How many four-star generals did he think there were? At
that time there were only two: MacArthur and Eisenhower!
I have written often of this sad return to America and my
subsequent career as a lecturer and writer on the subject of
Bataan. From this time on, my life would be written in head
lines, but I am not concerned with them. It was the marginal
notations of the heart that were most important to the man
within. That man put on a flamboyant front to America, but
under the showy f agade was a homeless, pauperized, thoroughly
frightened human being.
For the first time I was afraid of America. I feared its wealth
and its security and its kck of interest in the war. I had experi
enced that lack at first hand. I was at the point of physical and
emotional exhaustion, and my personal fears for my lost family,
which I felt by leaving the scene of war I was deserting, were
part of the nightmare.
For their sake and our country s I could not yield to these
fears.
I would learn kter my wife was sharing them with me.
226 I Walked with Heroes
Hiding with our boys in the hills, creeping from one hiding
place to another always under the very noses of the enemy, she
was nevertheless kept informed of all I was doing on Corre-
gidor and in America. She had her sources of information. I
had none concerning her. And because once, during a period of
nervous stress when I was working overtime, I had collapsed
at my desk in my newspaper office and found myself tempo
rarily paralyzed she now feared that for me. She knew what
ever I did would be done to the limit of my strength. Others
would comment upon my inexhaustible energy. She knew the
truth.
America demanded the last limits of that energy.
Arriving in Washington in July, 1942, under directions from
General MacArthur, I was officially assigned by President Que
zon and Secretary Stimson to give the Philippine side of the
story.
It seemed to me this was the opportunity I had been awaiting
all my life. At last I had the chance to try to promote the Phil
ippines internationally. For I found that in America everyone
I met knew of the part America had played in the defense of
the Philippines and of the last brave stand made there by Ameri
can boys, but few knew of the part the Filipinos had played.
Through the good offices of my agent and friend, Harold
Matson, and W. Colston Leigh of the well-known Fifth
Avenue lecture bureau I was launched with the velocity of a
projectile on a lecture tour that was to carry me to 466 cities
in every state of the United States.
Into thousands of willing American ears I poured out the
heroic saga of Filipino resistance. The American newspapers
had given the American side of the struggle. Little had been
written of the seventy-five thousand Filipinos who had fought
with the Americans in the tragic attempt to hold Bataan and
Corregidor. Much had been printed and spoken of the assault
to American pride in the Pacific; little of the Filipinos part in
the last brave stand and their humiliation.
I Walked with Heroes 227
I lectured until I was hoarse. I wrote of fighting and of
loyalty until my hand ached. I traveled in trains and planes and
cars to every corner of the United States, to and fro, from icy
north to sun-drenched south. It was a grand tour, unequaled
since, I am told. After every speaking trip I returned to the
Waldorf in New York, which had become my only home.
Living in the Waldorf was part of the facade. Living there
helped give me courage. For the same reason my first act upon
arriving in New York was to go to the best tailor I knew and
order the finest suits to be made. I was building a shell around
the man within, a man I had never been before.
For the first time in my life, from my standards, I was a
pauper. I had arrived in America with a lieutenant colonel s
salary and the uniform I wore, which was much too large. I
went to the Waldorf because it was a hotel I knew and where
I had friends. My friend Cugat was playing in the Starlight
Roof and the manager, F. DelTAgnesse, was also an old friend
of prewar days. In the lobby there were always faces of old
acquaintances. That was why I chose to live at the Waldorf
instead of going, as I might have, to a cheaper hotel.
That was why I chose my uniforms with care. The first I
ordered cost $175, and it was a uniform such as was worn by
generals at the Pentagon. I might have ordered a cheaper suit,
but I did not. I was wearing the four stars of a general s aide and
my own colors of combat and I was in America as a representa
tive of MacArthur.
Clothes are important, as I have said before, in that they give
you self-confidence. You are at ease in a suit made for you by a
good tailor. If you are badly dressed you are uncertain and ill
at ease.
I dressed as well as possible that I might be a credit to my
country and to MacArthur. That eye of his could go over a
uniform and never miss a button. Even separated from him by
the Pacific I was aware of his scrutiny. I was here on his duty;
228 I Walked with Heroes
I was here to give his side, the Pacific side, the Philippine side, to
America.
"Six months of speaking in America, Carlos," MacArthur had
said to me before I left his headquarters in Australia, "and we
will be ready here for the offensive. Then you can return to
the Philippines with me."
President Quezon appointed me Secretary of Information
and Public Relations in his war cabinet. When he sent for me to
give me this appointment I was lecturing in Boston.
In his room at the Shoreham Hotel he greeted me: "Romulo,
you remember how I promised you in Manila that I would make
you Secretary of Public Instruction? I am now giving you an
equivalent cabinet position here in Washington. I am appointing
you today as Secretary of Information and Public Relations.
You have earned it and I am happy I can do it now." I served
from 1943 to 1944.
It was during this period of speechmaking, traveling, and
mental and physical strain that I underwent with President
Quezon an experience I was to refer to as "my second Bataan."
Fourteen
GENERAL MacArthur at the outbreak of the trouble in the
Pacific had inducted me into the United States Army as a major
in charge of press relations for the Filipino side. I had left my
desk on the Philippines Herald to assume this responsibility in
the American headquarters on the old Spanish wall. Quezon
knew nothing of this until he arrived in headquarters one morn
ing to see MacArthur. He insisted upon calling in Roxas, and the
three of us had our pictures taken together. He was pleased to
see me there, in uniform, beside MacArthur.
Then came the flight to Corregidor. Quezon took his govern
ment group with him, but I remained in headquarters; I was
Army. I remained in Manila with MacArthur s rear echelon.
MacArthur was with Quezon on Corregidor. Then I was or
dered to the tunnel, just ahead of Homma s advancing men, and
Quezon greeted me there with enthusiasm interrupted by fits of
coughing.
Then in America, in Washington, he had welcomed me. I had
been appointed MacArthur s aide-de-camp upon my arrival in
Australia. Quezon had agreed with MacArthur that I could be
of more service to the Fil-American cause as a lecturer and
writer than I could be in the headquarters at Melbourne. His
first words of greeting upon my arrival at the Shoreham were a
hearty, "I am glad you are here, Rommy. You are just in time
to help me write my book. I have agreed with Morgan Shuster
to write the story of my life for his publishing firm."
I was taken aback. "But, Mr. President, I have just signed a
contract in San Francisco to write the story of my escape from
Bataan."
229
230 I Walked with Heroes
"That will be all right," he said. "Your experiences are very-
different from mine. We (by this he meant his family and staff)
are going down to the Homestead, so come along."
Uncertain as to what was the best thing to do, I went with
him to the beautiful resort in Virginia. Nothing more was said
about his book, so I seized every opportunity to work on my
own. He seemed tired and very frail and in no mood to discuss
what had happened in the Philippines. I told him that Secretary
of War Srimson had suggested I go on a lecture tour around the
United States and tell of the Pacific front, a plan MacArthur ap
proved. Quezon agreed it was a good suggestion, so I carried
out my plans and started on the tour.
For several months I saw little of him; meantime I completed
my book One manuscript copy was in the publisher s hands
ready for press, but we would need Quezon s approval as head
of the Philippines before releasing the book.
Returning to the Shoreham in Washington I left a copy of
my manuscript in the President s suite with a message stating it
awaited his approval; so did I.
I had to leave Washington again and again, still waiting. Each
time I returned I inquired with growing anxiety of friendly
members of his family or staff if the President had read my
manuscript. Each time he sent word to me or even told me face
to face that he was anxious to read it but had not as yet found
time.
We were on the best of terms. There was always a speech or
article he wanted me to write for him, or a request that I ac
company Mrs. Quezon and the children to church or some
place of amusement. To all appearances our little group in exile
at the Shoreham was a united group.
But publication day was drawing near and my manuscript
was still unread.
Advance copies of the printed book were sent to me. It could
not be released without Quezon s approval. I could take no
pride in it with this shadow hanging over me. I took a gift copy
I Walked with Heroes 231
to him, duly signed. He had to approve it! He was still the chief
of my country, even if that country was captive. Books had
been distributed all over America, ready for sale, and a cocktail
party had been arranged in my honor in New York on publica
tion day.
But the book now stayed unread by his sick bed; he was too
ill to read it and it could not be published without his permission.
Friends close to the President were pleading in my behalf.
Serapio Canceran, his very friendly secretary; Colonel Nieto,
his aide; his sweet daughters, Baby and Nini; and his wife, Dona
Aurora; all my good friends were doing their best to help the
book along. These days are remembered as among the most
harrowing of my life.
I thought constantly of all I had lost. My family was missing
and my life ruined, and all I had left was a suitcase full of uni
forms and my speaking voice and my book. Never in my life
had I felt sorrier for myself than during those days of waiting.
I tried to keep a bold face to the world, and went ahead with
my lecturing with an anxious heart. On these lecture tours I
wore the uniform of the United States Army. I was not trading
on my war record, but as a United States officer, speaking with
special permission from MacArthur, I felt myself on official
detail and the uniforms a must.
Suddenly, in the midst of one of the trips, Quezon summoned
me to Washington to his bedroom at the Shoreham. The peevish
invalid was gone; in his place was the hero of my boyhood.
"How is your book, Rommy?" he asked me in the kindliest
way.
I managed to stammer, "Still awaiting your okay, Mr. Presi
dent!"
"Then go ahead! Publish it! " He scolded as if I had been neg
ligent in the matter.
I rushed to the phone.
I Saw the Fall of the Philippines was not delayed in publish-
232 I Walked with Heroes
ing, but, I have been told, the deky did cost me its sale to
Hollywood.
After it was published Quezon seemed highly approving of
its contents and often joked with me about its sales. "Well, and
how is my friend the millionaire?" he would ask.
He did not live to see his own book published, nor the Philip
pines he loved set free. He died in exile on August i, 1944, in
Saranac Lake, and half my life seemed to die with him. He re
mains my hero, the finest type of true leader I shall ever know.
In the history of the Philippines he will remain the prototype
of political greatness, a man with human faults, but always the
leader whose foremost concern was the Philippines and peace.
The last time I saw him was at Saranac three months before he
died. Colonel Nieto had phoned me in Washington at the Presi
dent s request. When I saw him propped up against his pillows,
his cavernous eyes still blazing with the old fierce flame, his
voice firm and strong, but his coughing so persistent it seemed
to sap his strength, I could see the fighter was still undaunted,
but I feared he did not have long to live.
"Romulo, I have sent for you to decorate you," he greeted
me. At his bedside was Colonel Egmidio Cruz, one of the real
heroes of the war, who had been sent by President Quezon to
the Philippines by submarine to get first-hand information of
conditions under Japanese occupation. Using several disguises
he went from province to province at the risk of his life. He had
recently returned safely to Washington to give our leader the
first complete report of the sufferings of our people. Colonel
Cruz had been awarded the Medal of Valor, the equivalent of
the United States Congressional Medal. Also with him that
morning was Major Benvemito Diiio, one of the assistant physi
cians to the President.
"Major Diiio, please read the citation," the President ordered.
I was touched as the citation was read commending me for
my wartime service, for my work as Secretary of Information
and Public Relations, for my lectures and my writings, for my
I Walked with Heroes 233
"dedication and devotion to the best interests of the Filipino
people." I was awarded the Distinguished Service Star, one of
the highest Philippine decorations. The President then ordered
a bottle of champagne, and as he had a coughing spell he asked
Major Dino to make the toast in his behalf.
As I thanked him, he handed me a Manila envelope. In it was
his picture on which he had written: "To Carlos P. Romulo a
patriot. Manuel L. Quezon."
I was too full for words. I said in a bare whisper, "Thank you,
Mr. President, thank you, sir." My eyes were misty and my
throat dry.
I could not have asked for a higher accolade from him who
will ever be to me and to our people the embodiment of un
alloyed patriotism.
Like a gray shadow the figure of Osmefia took Quezon s
place in our government in exile. Osmefia the statesman, the
gentle of spirit had always been willing to sacrifice his personal
interests to stand in the shadow of Quezon. Studious and far-
thinking, he had stood beside Quezon to advise, support, or
restrain.
In time others would assume leadership, but Quezon cannot
be forgotten. Quezon once said, "I would rather see the Philip
pines run like hell by Filipinos than run like heaven by the
Americans."
I had shaped my life upon his ideals.
After Quezon s death I tried in every way to carry out his
ideals and if possible broaden their concept. His life had been
given to the Philippines. He had seen its future always as the
dream to be worked toward. I saw it as a free nation and as part
of the free world. The Philippines in itself was no longer
enough. It was part of our world. It had a large stake in the fu
ture of that world.
I was a small man from a small captive country in a world em
broiled by war. The American invasion of the Philippines was
234 I Walked with Heroes
imminent, but no one could be certain what the end would be.
Even so, I dared dream largely, even then.
I told those close to me: "Before long, the entire world will
have to sit down at one table and map out a common peace.
When that day comes I want a seat at that table and I want to
help write the peace."
Only a year after I escaped from Bataan I wrote an outline for
my pattern of that future world, a pattern which "to the major
ity of mankind is still considered to be the inviolable sanctity of
the human soul."
In my book, Mother America, in 1943, I gave that outline,
and I wrote: "The future pattern established in the Pacific will
determine the future of the world."
The end of colonialism was to start in the Pacific after the
defeat of Japan. In the Far East was the beginning the dawn of
the new free world.
All the forties were kaleidoscopic, lived with such intensity
that in memory they resemble momentary impressions on a TV
screen, so rapidly flashed before the eye that one can scarcely
believe they have been seen. From the hour the Philippines was
attacked until the end of this decade I would not know a day
that did not contain killing tension. These were nightmare
years, and still they hold wonderful memories.
Among these stand out unforgettable incidents that are proof
of the steadfast kindness of America. The years of writing and
lecturing in the United States are ever to be cherished because
of the friends made and the kindness shown. I was a man with
out a country, but everywhere I traveled, from New York to
California and back again and again, I was made to feel at home.
There were incidents that touched the heart, laughable inci
dents, and ridiculous ones. There were moments of sheer terror,
such as the rime a girl I had never seen before was found dead
outside my door in a leading hotel; and again when, in another
I Walked with Heroes 235
famous caravansary, a mysterious little man with his hand on a
small satchel crept into my room and FBI men whom I had
not known were keeping a twenty-four-hour watch over me
materialized in an instant, as if they had sprung from the floor.
With all their watchfulness the little man got away, and I never
have known what that was all about.
There was the day of days, my birthday in Miami, when
word reached me from MacArthur my first news of them
that my wife and sons were alive, guarded by guerrillas some
where behind Japanese lines. I dared speak of this to no one,
knowing the reprisals being carried out in the Philippines.
At this rime all my thoughts were centered on the coming in
vasion. When I dared dream it was in hope of a time to come
when war would be ended and I would have my family again
and build another home for them in a free Philippines. I wanted
to get back to Manila and rebuild my newspapers in such a way
that they would serve to influence not only my country but all
Asia. Because I had fought for freedom in war did not mean I
would not continue the fight in peace. Quezon had died for that
freedom. I would live for it.
All my hopes were based on the coming struggle in the Pa
cific. During this period of my life I was a soldier, nothing more.
My bags were packed. I had secret orders. I was to rejoin
General MacArthur in Hollandia and with him take part in the
siege of the Philippines. My watch was clocked to Pacific time
in those days and my thoughts were always on the great offen
sive piling up in the Pacific the troop ships, the carriers, the
planes, and the young men, the thousands and thousands of
young men all from America, all readying to set my country
free. I was in a state of high tension, waiting.
In Washington Osmefia, taking Quezon s place, was to be
sworn in as President in Exile of the Commonwealth of the
Philippines. I delayed my journey to the Pacific for this impor
tant event and accompanied him to the oath-taking in the
236 I Walked with Heroes
Department of the Interior. After the ceremony we drove
back together to the Commonwealth office on Massachusetts
Avenue.
As I settled into the car beside my new president I was op
pressed by the sadness of this ceremony of a nation in exile and
the fact that Quezon had not lived to see his country s liberation,
although he had kept in close touch to the end with the power
ful offensive building up in the Pacific. I was thinking of Que
zon when I realized Osmeiia was speaking to me in his slow,
scholarly voice.
"I will appoint you Resident Commissioner in place of the
one we have now, this afternoon, as soon as I ask for his resigna
tion."
I had to ask him to repeat his words. I was certain I had mis
understood him. I had known Vice-President Osmefia never
favored the appointment of the then incumbent Resident Com
missioner, but this sudden reversal of my planned future was
overwhelming.
"Surely you heard me," he said, a bit peevishly. "I need some
one here in Washington who is well-known in America and
who can be articulate about Philippine ideals."
I was not articulate at that moment. I was stammering, un
certain how to react or what to say. "But my bags are packed,"
I said. "You know I am under orders to rejoin MacArdmr. I am
leaving day after tomorrow."
But Osmefia went on with the deadly assurance of a gentle
man whose mind is made up. "I will appoint you this afternoon,
Romulo, and you can make your first speech on the floor of the
House, make your connections with the members, and then you
can rejoin the General."
So that was the way it happened. My ambitions since the war
had not been political, not for myself. In my wildest dreams I
had no such thoughts as this. I was a soldier, an officer preparing
to return to the batdefront. Now a few low, dignified words
I Walked with Heroes 237
had stripped me of uniform and made me into a person of poli
tics and power. I was completely dazed.
I did not fully grasp what was happening to me until the next
day, when I found myself repeating the oath after Sam Ray-
burn, Speaker of the House, with Congressman C. Jasper Bell
of Missouri and Majority Floor Leader John W. McCormack
as my sponsors. Minority Leader Joseph W. Martin was pres
ent, also Congressman Karl Stefan of Nebraska, Congressman
John D. Dingell of Michigan, and several others.
After taking my oath Speaker Rayburn said: "We are proud
to welcome a great Filipino whose loyalty to freedom and de
mocracy has been proved in Bataan. We are happy to number
you among us. The Philippines has chosen well in having you
as its representative here."
Then a great burst of happiness grew in me and a prayerful
hope that wherever my wife might be she would hear my broad
cast in this proud hour.
Virginia told me later she had heard my voice over the radio
she kept hidden in the stove in her Luzon refuge. I think in that
moment our prayers touched.
I had no time to worry as to whether I was fit to be Resident
Commissioner or not. The hour was set for my first speech in
the House, and I made it the very next day after taking my oath.
I made another speech, made my connections among the Con
gressmen, then set out to rejoin MacArthur.
I have written at length of the tense days preceding liberation
and the day when beside General MacArthur and President
Osmefia I waded ashore on the invaded beach at Leyte and felt
again under my feet the firm warmth of Philippine earth. Mac-
Arthur had returned, and with him I had come home.
It was D-Day on Leyte, October 20, 1944. On that day,
on that beach under fire, I broadcast over the Voice of Freedom.
Somewhere in our islands I could only hope my wife and chil
dren would be listening.
I spoke to them and to all in the Philippines:
238 I Walked with Heroes
this is liberation that brings us home.
Freedom returns to us by way of America.
Two years ago I said to you when our forces were trapped in
Bataan that America would not let us down. I can now tell you
what you know yourselves: America did not let us down.
For two years I have lived close to its war-stirred heart. I have
seen America swing into action. In thousands of miles of travel,
in hundreds of cities, I have seen Americans give of themselves
without stint to avenge Bataan. . . .
You must continue keeping faith with them.
The Filipinos kept that faith.
I returned to America to the floor of Congress and gave my
report on the reconquest of the Philippines by MacArthur s
returning forces and the invaluable help given them by our
guerrillas.
Then I was back in liberated Manila, a ruined city where
thousands were hungry, where families were living in caves dug
out of the ruins, with disease spreading due to a general breaking
down in health and medical care, and for the first time in Philip
pine history a rising evil of juvenile delinquency, the inevitable
aftermath of war.
According to figures collected at this time our beautiful city
of Manila had been eighty per cent destroyed. General Eisen
hower has stated that only Warsaw suffered such complete
annihilation.
I wrote to a friend in America, "I saw my home yesterday.
Ashes and ruins. It was razed to the ground. Have not found
Virginia nor the boys. My eldest is with the guerrillas again in
the Sierra Mountains. I am broken-hearted."
Fifteen
ASK the average man for the happiest day of his life and he will
have to think a moment before replying. Not L I know.
Before 1 945 I would have answered that my happiest was the
day of Virginia s high-school graduation, when I persuaded her
to let me slip on her finger the ring I had brought with such
nervous trepidation. That moment remains unequaled for ec-
stacy. It was the triumph of youth.
But the happiest of my days was the morning I crossed the
airfield outside Manila and saw standing, in front of three tiny
Piper cubs that had somehow escaped over the melting but still
dangerous Japanese lines, my wife and our two youngest sons.
They had landed on Grace Field outside Manila, while I was
with General MacArthur raising the American colors on recon
quered Corregidor.
We had been separated for three years. Dick, our third son,
was so grown I took him to be Greg.
Bobby, the baby, had turned into a little man, wary of the
uniformed stranger who kissed his mother, whose companion
and cavalier he had been through all the life he remembered. At
first he refused to speak to me, as he had been warned never to
talk to strangers.
Our two oldest sons joined us soon after and we were a family
again, but it took all the political astuteness I possessed to rewin
Bobby! Once when I lost all patience and spanked him with a
rolled newspaper his eyes filled with angry tears.
"Not even the Japanese did that to me! " he stormed, and any
father will know how I felt then.
239
240 I Walked with Heroes
I brought my family to Washington and Virginia began or
ganizing a home, not easy in wartime.
There was so much for a reunited family to talk over. I was
amazed to find that the most intimate details of my years in
America were known to them. The bamboo telegraph had been
kept busy with my exploits, and while I had been kept in dark
ness as to their war years every trip I had made, every speech I
had given on the floor of the United States Congress, and almost
every important person I had met were well-known to my fam
ily behind the enemy lines.
Mike and Gregorio, high schoolers, little more than children
in our eyes, had fought with the ragged army of resistance. My
wife and the two younger children had spent the three war
years constantly on the move, protected always by friends.
Once she had hidden in an orphanage, and General Lim, one of
our heroes on Bataan, had come to warn her to get out. She left
that night, and the next morning Japanese soldiers entered the
place, took into custody a Filipino officer, General Simeon de
Jesus, who had also been hiding there, and executed him.
Another time she returned to Manila, then suddenly decided
to leave for the province, and the following day the city was
bombarded by American planes. She had gone to her home
town then, to Pagsanjan, but the war followed her there also,
and at last she took to the hills, protected always by guerrillas
who kept her on the move, always ahead of danger.
It was Mike who started the move for her rescue. He reached
MacArthur on Leyte, who arranged with General Walter
Krueger for the Piper cubs to pick her up with our two small
sons, and then, with all plans made, Mike could not locate his
mother! In rags, with a beard, he hunted her from barrio to
barrio, but no one would tell him where she was hiding.
cc But Pm her son, General Romulo s son," Mike would pro
test.
His mother s defenders would regard him with suspicion and
say, "What proof have you?"
I Walked with Heroes 241
And he had no proof.
In Washington my wife and I, reunited, faced life as if for the
first rime together. My life was more than half over, and I had
to begin in a new field to win a place for my family and myself.
The truth was that I had looked forward to war s ending as a
resting place, but there was no time to rest.
From the day of liberation to the present day history was to
move very fast for the Philippines and the rest of the world.
And for me.
General MacArthur had returned me from the Philippines to
report to Congress on the conditions in recaptured Manila. It
was a sad and terrible report. My narration, accompanied by
motion pictures taken in the ruined city by the Signal Corps,
became a documentary that was shown all over the United
States.
And this, although I did not realize it then, was my final work
with General MacArthur. From now on I had to devote myself
to the civil welfare of my country. Military life was behind me.
The f ourragere and colors were laid away, to be worn only on
special occasions, and the uniforms were supplanted by the for
mal attire required by protocol on Capitol Hill.
But the friendship, die respect, the hero worship for I can
think of it now as that I held for General MacArthur is still
there. I hold for him the greatest admiration and my personal
gratitude. I think of him as the military genius whose interest
in the Philippines before the war, when he organized our army
and favored our independence, has enshrined him forever in
Filipino hearts; and, above all, he is the liberator of the Phil
ippines.
To me, personally, on Corregidor and Bataan and later in
Australia, he was always a rock of salvation, always ready to
give me support when it was needed.
I felt very bad when he was recalled. It was, I suppose, an
inevitable reaction to the General s having written a letter to
Minority Leader Joseph Martin, which was interpreted as being
242 I Walked with Heroes
anti-administration, a letter President Truman resented. But
was there need to swing the ax in just that fashion?
Mac Arthur is a keen analyst of world affairs. His mind, razor
sharp, knew the situation in Asia better than any other person
in military life. If he had been permitted to carry out his plans
Korea would have been a victory and not a stalemate.
I like him best for his humanity. MacArthur thinks of world
questions in human terms. Before any military movement his
greatest concern was always: How can we save lives?
The MacArthur I knew was and is a builder of human unity,
an exponent of human dignities. He might have been of incal
culable value in Asia where he will always be revered as one of
America s great heroes.
I walked beside a great hero on the beach at Leyte.
The two years I was to serve in Washington as Resident
Commissioner of the Philippines would contain the most reveal
ing experiences of my life. Before my appointment in 1944 I
am afraid that although I was a seasoned journalist and soldier
in his mid-forties who had seen much of the world and its work,
there still lurked somewhere within me a starry-eyed young
dreamer. Two years in Washington did much to finish the
dream and dim many of the stars.
I had come to America lonely and broken in spirit, and
America had opened its wide and wonderful heart to me. Now
it welcomed my family. My sons resumed their interrupted
schooling and made new friends. My wife and I made friends
also; we went out a great deal and entertained at our home. Life
became adjusted in Washington to a semblance of what it had
been for us before the war.
The atom bomb exploded over the world, and when the
smoke cleared Japan had fallen. An unsteady peace was estab
lished in the Pacific. In the Philippines the struggle against the
war-borne encroachment of communism began. My country
needed help.
I Walked with Heroes 243
As Resident Commissioner my days were spent in placing one
vital issue after another before the American Congress. There
was no more thought of returning to the Philippines. My place
in behalf of my broken country was beside the Potomac.
Osmeiia and Roxas were carrying on the fight for the presi
dency of the Philippines in Manila and I was alone.
One after another I fought for the acts that were to save my
country from complete postwar ruin. In rapid succession they
came, the Filipino Naturalization Act, the Philippine Trade
Act, the Philippine Rehabilitation Act, the Recision Act. At
first I was distressed to find that in Philippine negotiations with
America big business played a leading role. In my coast-to-coast
wartime speaking tours I had met many American businessmen,
friends from prewar Manila. I am not averse to big business,
which is the backbone of any country, but now I could see that
those friendships had been on a purely social level. This was dif
ferent. Now I was asking for financial aid for a country that had
given of its best its youth.
"Remember Bataan! " I had exhorted, up and down and across
America, in chilling weather and in southern heat. But who now
remembered Bataan? The faith given at risk of life, the blood
shed and the dying, the torture and the hunger who remem
bered these? Who in America remembered the shining example
of loyalty to democracy? War was so short a time behind us,
but memories are shorter.
In the Philippines we remembered.
The talk was starting on Capitol Hill. "We must rebuild
Japan. We must bolster Germany."
And when I asked, Why? the answer was firmly given: "To
make these countries oppose and fight communism."
"But in the Philippines we are already fighting communism,"
I would argue, "and this attitude on America s part is giving
communism a head start in the Far East."
But some Americans were already forgetting the Philippines.
In time loyalty and idealism would be forgotten with Bataan.
244 I Walked with Heroes
Washington offered a peephole into an America I had not
known existed. I was seeing American business interests at work
at close range, and unhappily I was the target.
Good friends of mine in Congress, who were fighting for
justice and fair play, were forced to listen to some powerful
business interests. They dared not turn their backs or they
would have found themselves off Capitol Hill. So they tried to
compromise.
There was work to do for the Philippines in Washington.
There was a fight to be waged but a fight of another type. War
was over. America became a world leader. She had to shoulder
obligations she never thought she would have. We in the Philip
pines believed and we had a right to so believe that we had
first claim on America s interest and attention.
Philippine independence would be proclaimed on July 4,
1946. Our country was prostrate; a devastating war and a cruel
enemy occupation had destroyed our industries, sapped our
national strength, and wrecked our economy. The Philippine
Trade Act and the Philippine Rehabilitation Act had to be
passed by the American Congress, and time was of the essence.
We needed the Trade Act to help cushion the effects of inde
pendence on our economy; we had to have the Rehabilitation
Act to rebuild the Philippines from the rubble of war.
Some of my friends in Manila urged me to return. "This is
the time for you to come back," I was told by one of our Sena
tors. "You are one of the war s heroes and you must enter poli
tics now. We must rally our people and prevent them from be
ing misled by those who tried to mislead them during the war."
But I happened to be in Washington and I knew, more than
anyone, the fight that had to be fought on Capitol Hill for the
Philippines. All attention in my homeland was concentrated on
the national elections. Someone had to be the watchdog for
Philippine interests in the United States. I decided to remain as
Resident Commissioner.
We had only a few months in which to fight for the Philip-
I Walked with Heroes 245
pine Trade Act and the Philippine Rehabilitation Act, There
was also the Filipino Naturalization Act and, later, the Recision
Act.
The Filipino Naturalization Act that had failed of passage
several times had to be enacted into law. Thousands of Filipinos
in the United States were being discriminated against. The Chi
nese, the Japanese, and other Orientals could be naturalized, but
not the Filipinos. I could not tolerate such injustice. I did not
want my fellow countrymen to change their citizenship from
Filipino to American. Personally I feel that my citizenship as a
Filipino is my most cherished possession and I would not ex
change it for that of any country in the world. Still I felt that
the Filipino, who for reasons of his own wanted to be an Amer
ican citizen should be entitled to the same legal privileges as the
Chinese, the Japanese, the Indians, the Greeks, or the Spaniards.
When in 1945 as Resident Commissioner I visited all the Fili
pino communities on the Pacific Coast from Seattle down to
California and New Mexico I saw that a Filipino naturalization
act was needed by these hard-working, thrifty, law-abiding
countrymen of mine as an act of justice. I therefore took all the
necessary steps to have a bill passed by Congress, and waited for
action to be taken on it on the floor of the House.
After my return from Leyte, immediately after my speech
reporting on the reconquest of the Philippines, the naturaliza
tion bill was taken up and passed by voice vote. The Senate
followed suit and a few days kter it was signed into law by
President Truman.
Then came the Recision Act, which I consider a grave injus
tice against our Filipino veterans.
World War II was over. The world was outwardly at peace,
but in the Philippines the war against Communist infiltration
had started. The Red propagandists fed their bitterness to vet
erans who had given their all to the fight beside America. The
Filipino soldiers, who fought as members of the Army of the
246 I Walked with Heroes
United States, and the guerrillas had been praised by top Amer
ican military authorities for the delaying action that had cut
months of fighting from the Pacific struggle and saved thou
sands of young American lives. Yes, war s end found us covered
with laurels; we were heroes.
But the Recision Act withdrew from our Filipino servicemen
many of their rights as veterans under the American flag. I went
several times to see Secretary of War Stimson to argue against
those injustices. For example, the Filipino veteran who had been
promised a dollar would be given only one peso instead. But a
peso is worth only half a dollar in the Philippines, and the cost
of living was on the rise.
And the argument returned to me was always, "Not to abide
by this would upset your economy in the Philippines. Your cost
of living is not as high as in the United States."
Then I would answer, "Isn t it important to you, more im
portant than our economy, not to upset the world s opinion that
America always stands for fair play? Besides, it is not true that
it would upset our economy."
That argument was waved back.
I would continue. "Why, if this is being done to Filipinos,
why is it not being done to Puerto Ricans, Cubans. Italians, and
other foreign soldiers who fought for the United States?"
That was never answered in definite terms.
Other rights to which we felt our Filipino soldiers entitled
were given to other veterans, but not to ours. It was ironic that
funeral rights were given us; a man had to die to prove he had
fought for America.
I knew the discontent this was causing in a troubled Philip
pines. When Quezon and MacArthur were in Corregidor a bill
was introduced in the United States Congress f ederalizing the
Philippine Army. This was passed by the Senate. Why it was
not passed in the House or why joint action was not taken by
the House and Senate is a question that has never been answered.
In the post-Bataan heydey of our accepted heroism this decision
I Walked with Heroes 247
had been approved by the Senate. We should have pressed vig
orously for similar action in the House when the iron was hot.
When we were less important the act did not get through the
House. If our army had been f ederalized, we would have had
no veterans problems after the war, and we would have avoided
all the resentment directed against the United States by veterans
who felt they had been unjustly treated.
Then the Recision Act took back what had been given.
In addition to the stress I was under in Washington was the
annoyance of a whispering campaign started against me by a
few individuals in the Philippines, that I was not fighting hard
enough for the Philippines but was only building up my
self. This slander, Communist-inspired in the beginning, was
whipped up by a vociferous minority. I tried to ignore the re
ports coming to me from Manila and to keep my mind on the
fight in Washington, but from certain unmistakable physical
signs I knew it was only a matter of time and pressure before,
in one way or another, I would not be able to go on.
Physical and mental strain can be borne, but the persistent
gnawing of detractors trying to undermine all one attempts to
build is hard to bear. There were many times during these years
when I wanted to quit. My wife begged me to withdraw, to re
tire from public office and its pressures and live a life of privacy
and leisure, the sort of life I had never known.
I could not give up. Others could forget Bataan, but not I.
Never shall I forget the bitterly cold morning in Washington
when I went to make one final plea to Secretary Stimson. I was
trembling with nervousness and cold when I faced him. He
opened the conversation before I had a chance to speak.
"I know why you are here," Stimson said. "That Recision
Act again. Well, it s no use. I told you nothing can be done.
You re wasting your time. It s a closed matter."
I could not yield. I knew the embittered despair this would
spread in the Philippines. "Mr. Secretary, do you realize what
this will do to Fil-American friendship? " I asked. "Do you want
248 I Walked with Heroes
the Filipino veteran to believe that a Filipino leg or eye lost in
battle is of less importance than the leg or eye of an American
soldier? What has our national economy to do with a man who
died fighting under your flag? In fact, I think the Filipino vet
eran should get twice as much as the American veteran, instead
of half, because the American fought out of duty and the Fili
pino out of loyalty."
But Stimson kept shaking his head. "The matter is closed."
"It cannot be closed to us, Mr. Secretary," I replied. "I am
leaving with you this memorandum of protest that at least we
are on record as having protested against it." And I handed him
a three-page memorandum with my arguments against the Re-
cision Act.
I went to Senate Majority Leader Alben Barkley in the Sen
ate. I talked to him as I had to Secretary Stimson. He said he
would study the matter and see what could be done. I conferred
with Speaker Rayburn, with Congressional leaders. With each
of them I left copies of my memorandum, which I know must
be in their official files.
Nothing was done.
I went to everyone I knew in Washington, down through
the lists of the administration, from Pontius Pilate to Caiaphas.
. . . And everywhere I was given the same stubborn answer: "It
is an administration measure. The matter is closed."
This slogan was set up against me like a wall.
And I looked back to my starry-eyed youth when I had be
lieved in America as the land of equality and freedom and I
understood the bitterness growing in a Philippines that had also
believed. I had to keep on believing that somehow the faith was
justified, or leave America. Now I understood the campaign
against me in the Philippines, which stated that I was not fight
ing hard enough for them. I had to keep on believing in America
and its democratic idealism or all the blood and tears of the war
years were wasted.
While there are such Americans as John W. McCormack,
I Walked with Heroes 249
Walter H. Judd, Clement Zablocki, Olin Teague, William
Fulbright, "Mike" Mansfield, George Miller, John D. Dingell,
Jr., Alexander Wiley, Arthur Hays Sulzberger, Roy Howard,
Phillip Graham, and many others who make every effort to be
fair and square I cannot lose my faith in America. In the particu
lar case of our Filipino veterans "Tiger" Teague of Texas has
been fighting all these years to correct some of the injustices in
the Recision Act. To my mind he typifies true Americanism.
And I am certain, sooner or later, we will win the fight.
But it is difficult to keep the faith in Washington. There were
rimes in these affable, smiling, well-dressed, and beautifully-
mannered administrative groups, meeting at cocktail parties and
dinners, when I knew myself to be surrounded by men who
were thinking only of themselves, oblivious of the world around
them, forgetful of their friends who sacrificed for them and
their country. The injustices and inequalities of the Philippine
Trade Act, which I opposed in committees and on the floor of
the House, exposed this morass of selfishness coated so thinly
with patriotic zeal. I accepted the provisions of the act in behalf
of the Philippines because they had to be accepted or we would
have had nothing. And far worse they would have been if we
had not fought vigorously.
As an example of the onerous provisions of the bill which I
failed to eliminate is that which provides that we must amend
the Philippine Constitution to give equal rights in the Philip
pines to American citizens. In the committee hearings I vigor
ously fought the inclusion of this section in the bill. But I failed
to convince Congress and the provision that we must amend our
constitution remained in the law as enacted.
Still I believed, and I believe it still, that ultimate world jus
tice lies with America. And this is because I have faith in the
American people, in their innate sense of justice and fair play.
All my youth was lived in that belief and I could not desert it in
my mid-forties. So I continued to fight, and accepted defeat
only when I felt it was best to take what was being offered, that
250 I Walked with Heroes
this would be better for us in the long run when independence
came.
For if I had persisted in fighting for the Trade Act that I
wanted, I knew we would have had no law at all and we would
not have had the Rehabilitation Act either. Time was pressing.
We had scarcely three months to get the legislation through. As
I said in part in my speech when the Trade Act was in final
debate on the floor:
This bill, Mr. Speaker, is not the kind I would have written in
the best of all possible worlds. In such a world, the Philippines
would be standing firmly on its own feet, depending on its own
resources, producing a diverse and useful variety of products for
domestic consumption as for export, freed of feudalism and archaic
economic policies, independent in its economy as well as in its
politics. In such a world, the Philippines would share in that larger
dream the dream written into the Atlantic Charter, the dream
of an economic system wherein all the peoples of the world would
truly have free access to the raw materials of our earth.
In such a world, if I had written this bill as I would have wished,
it would provide for perpetual free trade between the United
States and the Philippines, amid a global community of perpetual
free trade. It would provide for no graduated tariffs, no quotas,
no limitations on commerce.
If I had written it, the rights assured to the United States would
not appear in the bill at all. They would be assured by a treaty
entered into on a basis of complete equality between our two
sovereign nations. . . .
From the time of our liberation, which began in October, 1944,
with the first landings on Leyte, until December, 1945, our total
exports to the United States amounted to less than one million
dollars. One million dollars! That is the productiveness of our
economy today. In an average prewar year, we were producing
exports averaging more than 155 million dollars. Our economic
fruits of victory, Mr. Speaker, can therefore be put into a ratio of
one to one hundred and fifty-five. That ratio spells disaster not
in some distant future, but right now
This bill, as you know, provides for a period of only eight years
I Walked with Heroes 251
of free trade between our two countries. After that, it provides
for a twenty-year period during which duties are gradually in
creased at a rate of five per cent a year. We are therefore inclined
to speak of it as legislation providing for twenty-eight years of full
or partial free trade.
In point of fact, it is not full free trade at any time, because it
establishes quotas which limit the amount of sugar, cordage, rice,
cigars, tobacco, coconut oil, and buttons which may be exported
from the Philippines to the United States. Neither it is altogether
a matter of twenty-eight years of such preferential treatment,
since the gradual increase in duties will begin to be felt long before
the period is ended. I am not raising objections to these points. I
am merely making them clear.
What this period of preference will do is quite simple. It will
provide businessmen in the Philippines with some incentive to go
back into business. It will banish the dreadful inertia that beclouds
our islands. . . .
During these twenty-eight years, we shall be able to plan our
economy with a view to the true economic independence which
is the right of every sovereign people.
After the founding of the United Nations and just before in
dependence was granted the Philippines, in this same vital year
of 1946, there was sandwiched in between these nerve-shatter
ing events one of the most exhausting of all struggles, that of the
UNRRA the United Nations Rehabilitation and Reconstruc
tion Act.
Conditions grew worse in the Philippines. We had to have
funds. We were fighting for our sugar quota, for the right to
stay alive. As I have already said, in the Philippines our leaders
were fighting out the election and I had no one to assist me in
America. I felt completely alone, lost between two countries.
The UNRRA conference was held in Atlantic City. As the
Chief Philippine delegate I appeared before the leaders of many
nations and the futility of my attempt was clear. Outwardly all
was good will and respect for the Filipinos. But ranging in the
background were the men from Washington and from other
252 I Walked with Heroes
nations, who publicly were all friendliness to the Philippines but
who were maneuvering from behind the scenes to get all they
could for their respective countries. It was a free for all.
What did I have to offer to win their consideration? Only a
handful of statistics compiled by the USAFFE Veterans of the
Philippines as follows:
(a) USAFFE personnel killed
or died in line of duty,
including those who died in
prison camps over 36,000
(b) USAFFE personnel separated
from the service because
of service-connected injury
or illness over 9,000
(c) Guerrillas killed, died of
wounds, or sickness,
missing after combat operations over 29,000
(d) Missing over 15,131
Total over 89,131
Estimated Physical loss:
Private property $526,107,000
Public property 259,527,000
Small private property 75,238,000
Total $860,872,000
To America this was a brief list of numerals. To the Philip
pines these were our sons and our hard-earned property.
I gave the last of my strength to the meeting at Atlantic City,
returned to my home in Washington, and collapsed. The sum
of $12,000,000 was allotted to the Philippines for relief. I was
completely exhausted, emotionally and physically. I was put
into Walter Reed Hospital and forbidden newspapers, TV,
radio, and all visitors save Virginia. I remained in bed for weeks,
I Walked with Heroes 253
content to stare into space, thoughtless, untroubled. I had as my
physician a famous Filipino diagnostician, Dr. Gonzalo Austria,
who happened to be in Washington.
Then word reached me of fresh problems of vital interest to
the Philippines. The first was a hearing held in the Senate by the
Finance Committee to discuss the Philippine Rehabilitation Act.
I had to appear. Roused from lethargy and a deathly inertia I
summoned enough strength to go in a wheel chair and make one
last appeal for justice, accompanied by my economic adviser,
Dr. Urbano Zafra, and my physician, Dr. Austria.
It was not my last effort, however. Again and again, while
my illness lasted, I appeared in my wheel chair in the halls of
Congress and pleaded for justice for the Philippines.
It was not only this struggle for understanding that exhausted
me. Between these efforts had occurred what was to be the
greatest event in my life and perhaps in the entire world s the
formation in San Francisco of the United Nations.
Sixteen
IN 1 945 the first rumors of plans for a United Nations organiza
tion were heard. The world had not adjusted to its precarious
peace. Every nation, with the probable exception of Russia, felt
that the only insurance against further mass murder would be
the formation of a world organization that would represent and
protect all the peoples of the earth.
This had been a private dream of mine for many years. It had
started during student days at Columbia when I took such pas
sionate interest in Wilson and the League of Nations. My
youthful ideals were pinned to that organization. Later I had
made a study of the League, trying to discover why it had
failed, and if a new League were formed what could prevent
its failure. I read up on Clemenceau of France, Venizelos of
Greece, Orlando of Italy.
As early as 1942, newly returned from Bataan, I had drawn
plans for a world organization based on a blueprint of peace in
the Pacific. I had definite ideas concerning the formation and
operation of such an organization, and had confided to trusted
intimates that when it was organized I hoped to be one of those
who would be asked to sit at the peace table.
In my own mind I had years before sketched the dream build
ing in which these meetings of the international powers would
be held. But of the actuality, the formation of the United Na
tions, I first heard rumors early in 1945. 1 was still in uniform
and still Resident Commissioner. I had nothing to do officially
with the United Nations beginnings. I learned along with the
rest of the reading world that preliminary meetings were to be
I Walked with Heroes 255
held at Dumbarton Oaks. My days were crowded with duties,
but any plan for world peace seemed so important to me that I
succeeded in attending some of the meetings as an observer.
I reread every word I could find on the tragic failure of the
League of Nations. I became convinced that it had collapsed
because the United States had not joined. But if a new organiza
tion was formed, with the United States in it to support and
lead, how could it fail?
So my hopes and excitement grew when my life-long fantasy
appeared as a definite plan. A conference of world powers was
called in April in San Francisco. I read avidly every word that
appeared concerning the proposed conference, with no idea
how soon this interest would act to my advantage.
One night I was in my bed at the Shoreham, trying to lull an
overly active mind to rest, when President Osmefia telephoned
from Florida. He had been operated on in Jacksonville and was
still weak.
"Romulo, Fm sending you to San Francisco," he said in his
gentle but decisive way. "Fm appointing you chairman of our
Philippine delegation to the United Nations organization con
ference."
Again, in a moment, my entire world whipped over. My tired
brain tried to grasp all his words held for me.
I had never thought of myself as a diplomat. I was unprepared
for leadership. I had no experience in international matters. I
had been newspaperman, soldier, and lecturer, and was no more
ready for a diplomatic career than I had been for military life
when MacArthur summoned me to his headquarters on the
Spanish Wall. And there were personal reasons that made me
hesitate.
My wife and children and I had just been reunited after more
than three years of separation. They were newly arrived in
Washington. We were estranged at first and were just begin
ning to be a family again. The barrier between Bobby and my
self was breaking down and I was enjoying him. I could not
256 I Walked with Heroes
bear the thought of leaving my family again and setting off on
a new career as a peacemaker.
But had it not been peace I had prayed for all these years?
Then the thought came to me that this was the opportunity
I had been waiting for all my life the chance to speak for my
country, to make the Philippines known.
I discussed the problem with my wife and boys and they de
cided with me: I should go to San Francisco.
Osmena had said it was of the utmost importance that the
Philippines be properly represented at the meeting. This was a
large order for a small country that was still not a sovereign
nation. America had not yet granted our independence. We
were still a commonwealth.
As the representative of a small, still dependent country at
an international conference I would certainly be on the outside
looking in.
How was I to insure a hearing in San Francisco? I had heard
of some Filipino delegates who had gone to international meet
ings and were completely ignored.
The next morning I telephoned a friend in the State Depart
ment, and asked that he arrange a meeting for me with Secretary
of State Edward Stettinius.
"Would no one else do?" he queried.
I told him, "No, I must see the Secretary himself."
Stettinius was to be chairman of the host nation at San Fran
cisco. He met me in the friendliest way, said he had heard about
me, and inquired after General MacArthur. Then he said, "And
now, what can I do for the Philippines?"
I told him promptly. "A great deal. President Osmefia has
appointed me to lead the Philippine delegation to San Francisco
and I have come to offer you my help."
I had his startled attention, which was exactly what I had
hoped for in suggesting that a small country like the Philippines
could be of any use to a powerful country like America. This
I Walked with Heroes 257
was possible, I hastened to explain, because our countries shared
the same ideals.
"We Filipinos can speak for the small nations better than the
United States can," I argued, "and in a way that will be more
understandable to the other small countries. But, Mr. Secretary,
to be effective I must be on the inside in San Francisco. In the
past the small nations have always been left out of everything
that is going on in meetings of world powers, and only if I am
in the know will I be able to understand and help."
"In what way?" he asked. "What do you mean?"
"I mean," I said boldly, "that I should like to be kept in
formed during the conference in all matters not pertaining to
American security."
He made up his mind at once. "Good! We ll do that! I ll ap
point a liaison between my delegation and yours and he will
report to you everything that goes on. And you can see me
personally any time." He gave me the name of the State Depart
ment official who was to be the liaison officer and wished me
well, repeating, "Don t forget, General, you can call on me at
any time."
I said, "Mr. Secretary, you can be sure I will, whenever
necessary."
My weariness was forgotten. I telephoned Osmefia and he
was delighted. Stettinius as chairman would know everything
that was going on in San Francisco and now that I was in his
confidence I would too.
From that day on this has been my line of conduct in any
new undertaking. I go to the man at the top and ask to be taken
in "on the know." It always works to mutual advantage.
I went to San Francisco determined to do what I thought was
right, and in a sanguine mood as to what could be accomplished
in the city by the Golden Gate. I felt certain that this time we
were going to settle all the problems of the world and I was
angered by articles suggesting the conference might not bring
about all we hoped for.
258 I Walked with Heroes
So I found myself that April of 1945 in San Francisco, as the
chief delegate of the Philippines to the embryonic United
Nations. I was the barefoot boy of politics at the august meet
ing. I had never before attended an international conference.
I knew nothing at all of the art of diplomacy, which I have since
diagnosed as the ability to make the nastiest possible comment
in the nicest possible way. I was an untrained, untested green
horn, and I had been thrust into the most serious international
situation existing at that time in the world.
There were other handicaps.
Fifty sovereign nations were represented in San Francisco.
Among the representatives were the exponents of vast wealth
and power. They were the long-established, experienced over
lords of the earth. Some of these men had sat in on the League
of Nations.
In the gathering were those who regarded Asian members as
upstarts. Worst of all for me was the fact that I represented an
Asian nation that was not yet independent. I was made aware
of detractors who felt I had no right to speak. Almost at once
I sensed the intrigue and conniving that was to keep the United
Nations in a state of turmoil.
Add to these handicaps the fact that for the first time in my
life I had stage fright on a scale to match the vastness of our
enterprise.
In San Francisco I made errors and enemies and lasting
friends. I floundered in diplomatic eddies that I could not under
stand. I was a very small mite in that great world, but I was
determined to make the name of the Philippines known and to
make it known in a dignified, effective way.
It was what I had been asking for all my life, and I was going
to take full advantage.
A great deal has been written about the first speech I made
in San Francisco before that world organization. My opening
sentence, "Let us make this floor the last battlefield," has been
often described as followed by a standing ovation, the only one
I Walked with Heroes 259
given to any speaker before that first General Assembly. Pierre
J. Huss, writing for the Hearst Newspapers, said in that moment
I made a name for myself and my country. I deny that. The
name of the Philippines has stood for national integrity for
centuries. It was my privilege, on this day, to voice its precepts
to the world.
Into that speech had gone my own prayers and tears; my life
had been dedicated to its meaning. I did not speak alone. With
me was the Asia I knew all the troubled, despairing, inartic
ulate, dependent six hundred million people who prayed to be
set free. I had seen their faces. I knew their dreams. I spoke for
them.
I must confess the reception given my opening words stag
gered me. For a moment I stood silent, wondering, and almost
afraid. Was this thunder of applause some sort of attack? Then
I knew that those who applauded were with me all of freedom s
way.
Some others were not, but I was to find that out later.
From that hour on I would be publicized as "the big voice
of the small nations."
The speech launched me at once into the debates. It also set
the representatives of the colonial powers solidly against me.
This became most apparent during the discussions in the Trus
teeship Committee.
As soon as I learned that the colonial powers wanted the trus
teeship system over trust territories to promote the advance
ment of the peoples under them only toward self-government
and not toward independence I braced myself for the fight of
my life.
"Independence" was the only word that could give true
meaning to the Charter. That word meant more to me and to
all non-self-governing peoples than any other nation could
know. My delegation and I were shocked to find it was not in
cluded in the original draft and even more shocked when we
260 I Walked with Heroes
learned that any attempt to include the word "independence"
would be bitterly opposed by the leading powers.
But the word had to be there!
I found out what an uphill fight mine would be during the
general debate, when I stood alone against the massed opposi
tion of powers. All the colonial powers were lined up against
my stand. A small, brash newcomer to the international arena,
I was competing against men backed by centuries of domina
tion. All Europe all history was behind them.
Lord Cranborne led the opposition for the United Kingdom,
flanked by the delegates of France, Belgium, and the Nether
lands. On the debating floor, and by private pressure brought
against me from every side, the colonial powers sought to wear
me down. All were against me and my one little word.
We argued and came to no conclusion.
It was only a word, they said. "Independence!" What dif
ference between it and the word they asked for, "self-govern
ment"?
Impossible to explain to these assured men who represented
the great powers how much the word meant to dependent peo
ple. How could they know? They were born free.
Why was I fighting so hard, they asked, for a single word?
I was put on the defensive. They said I was delaying the
signing of the Charter.
I would not give in.
The general debate ended. The real struggle was to start in
the Trusteeship Committee. I had twenty-four hours in which
to prepare, not to defend, but to attack.
The delegates went to their respective committees there
were six to discuss the Charter draft, article by article. My
delegation stood by me. They agreed that the word independ
ence must be included in a charter that held full meaning for
all people.
Far into that night I continued my fight for the precious
word. I went first to the United States delegate. Governor
I Walked with Heroes 261
Harold Stassen was the American delegate in the Trusteeship
Committee. I had perfect faith that America would understand
"We are not against you, but we cannot take the initiative,"
was as far as he would commit himself.
I took this to mean that if I did make a final stand in the
matter America would support me. I had to be content with
that.
I had expected full-hearted support from all Asia. I did not
get it. This was one of the biggest shocks I received during the
conference. Sir Ramaswami Mudaliar was the the Indian dele
gate. I could get no help from him. Madame Pandit was in San
Francisco. But because her country was still under the British
and she and her brother Nehru were fighting for independence
she found herself decidedly on the outside looking in and could
offer no help.
I hunted up the Latin- American delegates one after another.
Some were for me. Others seemed merely willing to listen.
I spoke to Ambassador Wellington Koo of China and he
promised to support me. His chief, T. V. Soong, who was the
foreign minister and whom I had met and interviewed in Hong
Kong and Chungking, acted as if he had never seen me before.
The hours were passing and I was frantic. Knocking on
doors, prowling the corridors of the St. Francis Hotel, and
buttonholing delegates at lunch, dinner, and between time I
presented my cause. Independence was the only goal.
I argued. It was difficult to argue with people who had always
been free. Again and again I was asked, "But what does it matter
what word is used when the meaning is the same?" The argu
ments, the pressure, went on day and night until I felt myself
nearing the breaking point. But I would not break.
Independence and self-government are not the same. Inde
pendence is the only goal for a people to achieve the genius of
its race. The United Nations had to make it the goal.
I was tired out, sleepless, exhausted by the word. I went to
bed leaving the matter in God s hand, and snatched a few hours
262 I Walked with Heroes
of sleep before the crucial debate in the Trusteeship Committee.
Much has been written about that debate. Lord Cranborne
and Chairman Peter Frazier, prime minister of New Zealand,
spoke for self-government. I demanded independence.
Harold Stassen, representing the United States and acting as
middleman at the proceedings, sent a personal note written in
pencil after the debate.
"Congratulations. We are proud of you," was all it said.
Then we had to go through it all over again on the floor of
the General Assembly.
As finally approved and as adopted by the plenary session of
the Assembly, Section (b) of Article 76 in the chapter on Inter
national Trusteeship System reads:
"to promote the political, economic, social, and educational ad
vancement of the inhabitants of the trust territories, and their
progressive development towards self-government or independ
ence. . . ."
The Philippines won its battle. One word but how mean
ingful to voiceless millions in Asia and Africa.
Former Premier Paul-Henri Spaak of Belgium, a finished
diplomat and an excellent speaker, one of the real world states
men at the conference, had opposed me violently in two or
three of these acrimonious debates. Then we found ourselves
lunching together in the auditorium caf eterk.
"Romulo, I like you," he said suddenly, "but when I am
listening to you speak on that podium I hate you!"
I saw then that politics without personal contact can wreak
havoc. After several of our luncheon meetings Spaak s attitude
toward me softened, and in subsequent discussions in the United
Nations he was less belligerent. We still lacked a meeting of
minds, but perhaps a meeting of souls must precede understand
ing. I have learned to respect and admire the Belgian statesman
and I consider him one of my heroes, one of the world s greatest
men. He and I are now co-chairmen of the World Brother-
I Walked with Heroes 263
hood movement, together with Konrad Adenauer of Ger
many, Madame Pandit of India, and Dr. Arthur Compton of
the United States.
This proved to me that no matter how diametrically opposed
your views may be from another s if you can succeed in know
ing him as a human being you can understand each other. If, as
we are told, we are made in the image of our Lord the spark of
divinity in you can light the spark of divinity in me, and a light
forms by which we can see each other s problems and know
we are brothers under the skin.
After the incident with Spaak I have made it a rule to look
for the spark of divinity in each man. In some it would be buried
too deep for my poor powers to uncover. Certain delegates to
the United Nations showed me the purest malevolence, but I
persevered and sometimes won the way to understanding. For
no matter how deep the spark is buried, one can be certain it
is there.
The matter of the veto came up early in San Francisco. I was
one of its determined opponents. It provided that any of the
great powers could veto any matter involving world security. I
feared that such a ruling, if abused by one of the great powers,
would paralyze the United Nations, and this is exactly what
has happened. In major issues the United Nations has been im
mobilized by that all-powerful Russian Nyet.
I teamed up with Minister for External Affairs Herbert Evatt
of Australia, who led the fight against the veto, and we began a
spirited series of debates.
I was giving my all to the issue when Stetrinius met me in the
aisle one day and asked me to have breakfast with him the next
morning in his apartment hotel on Nob Hill. A distinguished,
gray, courteous host, he put his arm around me in welcome and
led me to the breakfast table. The atmosphere quivered with
affability.
As we ate, he reminded me of how I had gone to him in
Washington after my appointment as chief of the Philippine
264 I Walked with Heroes
delegation and asked to be put "in the know" in San Francisco.
"We ve done as you wished, haven t we? " he asked. "Haven t
we taken you into our confidence?"
I assured him that was true.
He had indeed been kind. The liaison officer had carried good
will and information between us, and the members of his dele
gation had been most helpful.
Still on that happy plane I thanked him, and said I had been
kept well-informed of the behind-the-scenes activities.
Stettinius beamed. "That is exactly what I wanted to hear.
And you have done a wonderful job, General. Senators Van-
denberg and Tom Connally have spoken to me many times
about you and we are very proud of what you have done. But
at times . . ."
"Yes?" I prompted.
He shook his distinguished gray head. "The veto power," he
said sadly.
"I know you favor it," I said. "But I can differ with you
honestly."
"Oh yes," he agreed readily. "You can differ. But I want to
ask you a question. Do you really want the United States in
the United Nations?"
Did I want it? Did the world need it? I thought back to
Wilson and his sickness of heart when he knew the League had
failed. I knew then how he had felt. Was I to be responsible for
another world tragedy?
"Without the United States," I said, "the United Nations will
be another League of Nations. Another failure."
And I reviewed for him briefly that sad history of a hope that
had risen and fallen to permit a world to plunge again into war.
Stettinius listened gravely. "I m glad you know all that," he
said, "because, as Senators Vandenberg and Connally will tell
you, the United States will never ratify the United Nations
Charter unless it contains the proviso of the veto power."
I Walked with Heroes 265
"I didn t know," I said, "that the American people were
determined to have that power."
"They are," Stettinius assured me. "Can t you see that there
should be unanimity among the big powers? If you really want
the United States in the United Nations you should know that
the United States will never enter the United Nations without
that proviso. As a friend I think you should realize how fixed
our intentions are."
What could I say? I protested feebly. "But I have taken a
definite stand."
"I know. That is why I asked for this talk with you."
We talked for an hour and it was time to leave for the meet
ing.
"In other words, Mr. Secretary," I said finally, "those of us
who are opposing the veto power are to pipe down."
He gave me his friendly smile. "Exactly, my dear General,
if you want America in the organization."
I told him that I would have to confer with my delegation.
And I did confer, especially with Senator Carlos P. Garcia, now
President of the Philippines, who had made a special study of
the veto. I also discussed it with Vandenberg. But the decision
had to be mine.
Was the United States to come in or stay out?
In the end, while the Philippine delegation went on record
as being against the veto, I opposed it no longer. I still say it
was wrong.
There were other issues at San Francisco, but to me the veto
was most vital. As to the inclusion of the word "independence"
in the Charter, that is my cenotaph. It is the Philippine contribu
tion to the world Magna Charta. In my mind, achieving the ac
ceptance of that word is the most satisfying accomplishment of
my career in the United Nations.
Pierre J. Huss pleased me with his comment: "Thanks to him
(Romulo) the United Nations has independence in its Charter,
266 I Walked with Heroes
one of the most important contributions for the evolution of
humanity to dignity and freedom."
Among the minor issues debated during the San Francisco
conference was the choice of a site for the future United Na
tions. I waged a hopeless struggle to have San Francisco chosen,
although it was against my private interests to do so since my
home was in Washington and if the meetings were in New
York I would be able to commute.
I favored San Francisco because I believed the future of the
world lies in the Pacific. The Atlantic s era is finished. The Old
World is truly old.
A suggested San Francisco site was on the hills overlooking
the Presidio, a lovely parklike military encampment, in the hills
by the Golden Gate. In it is a cemetery for the military dead.
A British delegate in protesting this site made the objection,
"If we build the United Nations there we will look down on
the graves of all those soldiers."
I answered, "All the better; it will keep us reminded that war
is inevitable death. It will not make us forget that our purpose
is peace."
It was in San Francisco that I first proposed that a conference
of non-self-governing peoples be called under the auspices of
the United Nations. For a time this was held in abeyance and
I had to push it through in 1948 in the General Assembly.
Strange to say, although it has been voted on and approved,
nothing further has been done in this matter. Still such proposals
have their value in that by our ability to gain approval of them
we show their need.
San Francisco added three to my roll call of heroes. They
were Paul-Henri Spaak of Belgium, Jan Masaryk of Czecho
slovakia, and Field Marshal Jan Smuts of South Africa. Some
day I shall write at length of these truly great men. I came to
know them well and all I learned served to feed my respect
for them as patriots and men of good will.
I Walked with Heroes 267
In San Francisco with a firm hand I signed the United Na
tions Charter for the Philippines. It was an actuality. The dream
of a lifetime had come true for me. How many men are so
blessed!
In my library are many shelves of books written about the
San Francisco meeting. Of all those written and spoken con
cerning me nothing has pleased me more than words spoken
by one who was in San Francisco and closely followed the con
ference proceedings President Hamilton Holt of Rollins Col
lege in Florida. A former magazine editor, a great scholar and
educator, Dr. Holt had been chief adviser to Woodrow Wilson
in the preparation of the Versailles Treaty, and for that reason
I cherished the words he spoke when he awarded me a Doctor
of Literature degree some months after the signing of the
Charter:
Carlos P. Romulo, educator, editor, author, pkywright, lecturer,
soldier, patriot, I heard you at San Francisco last spring speak with
unmatched eloquence for the six hundred million inarticulate and
dependent peoples of the world. I saw you stand before the dele
gates of fifty sovereign nations as the chief champion of liberty
and freedom of the world. I witnessed your statesmanship force
into the Charter the adoption of the statement that backward peo
ples of the world "held as a sacred trust of civilization," had the
right to aspire to full "independence," while the American dele
gation (shades of the signers of the American Declaration of In
dependence) went slavishly along with the empires on this issue
until you turned the tide. You emerged from the conference with
a moral grandeur which your imperialistic opponents could not
fail to recognize. . . . Thus, General Romulo, because you have
so nobly fought for the freedom of the Philippines and because, by
voice and pen, you have constantly fought for the liberty of man
kind, Rollins College confers upon you the degree of Doctor of
Literature and admits you to all its rights and privileges.
I would remember the kindness of this tribute in a time near
at hand, when calumny too harsh to bear would be heaped upon
my weary head.
268 I Walked with Heroes
In San Francisco I felt the presence of Woodrow Wilson.
Somehow the signing of the Charter seemed to make some
atonement for his tragic betrayal.
A country is as great as its great men. America has been
fortunate in its presidents.
Franklin D. Roosevelt did not live to see the creation of the
United Nations. He died two months before the meeting in San
Francisco. He was the first American president I knew as a
public official, and as Resident Commissioner I met him several
times in the White House. In my mind he made articulate the
ideals of the free world as Wilson did in his day. No other since
has expressed such ideals.
I also believe Roosevelt saved the United States from possible
revolution in 1933. There are two kinds of revolution: the
bloody kind that starts from below and the peaceful kind that
starts from above. Roosevelt started the peaceful kind with his
social reforms.
So he was hated. So was Lincoln hated. All who make crucial
decisions are hated. The ones who hated Roosevelt most were
the ones who would have suffered most if what he prevented
had come to pass.
I recall a crucial meeting with Roosevelt. The funeral of
President Quezon was attended by members of President Roo
sevelt s cabinet and the President himself was represented by
Admiral Leahy and Chief of Staff General George C. Marshall.
Quezon s remains were temporarily pkced at the mausoleum
for the heroes of the Spanish-American War and later trans
ferred to Manila. After the service President Osmafia called on
President Roosevelt at the White House and asked me to ac
company him.
It was a different Roosevelt from the one I had seen at Notre
Dame in 1935 an( l a different one also from the amiable Pres
ident who had received President Osmefia and me in the White
House the following year. The burdens of state had weighed
I Walked with Heroes 269
on him. His hair was gray and I thought I noticed a slight
tremor in his hand as he lighted his cigarette.
But his voice was the same, as enthralling as it was when we
received degrees together at Notre Dame. He greeted President
Osmeiia with a cordial, "Congratulations, Mr. President. We
Americans suffered a great loss with the death of my good
friend, President Quezon. But we are fortunate that his suc
cessor is here with us and is a man of your experience."
The two presidents talked a long time. President Roosevelt
led the conversation, and only at intervals was the quieter Os-
mena heard. The American President was fired with the energy
and nervous tension of war. We were on our way back to the
Philippines, he said. We were showing the Japanese the Ameri
cans were really angry, and our splendid commander, General
MacArthur, would have us back before the world would sus
pect it could be done.
He spoke of the "superb loyalty" of the Filipinos and the
guerrilla warfare still being carried out on the Pacific line and
the lessons such loyalty had given our allies.
"I have told Churchill," he said, "that because of this he
must change his views and set a date for the independence of
India as we have in the Philippines. This war should change
many of our fossilized views about peoples. It is practically
won; our worry now is how to win the peace."
Osmefia pointed out the Philippines would need America s
help after liberation. It was promised, with a large heart-warm
ing Roosevelt smile.
"No people has earned its freedom as you have," the Ameri
can President told us. "Your country was destroyed fighting
for us. It is our duty to help you rebuild." And he added,
thoughtfully, "I may go to Manila to proclaim your independ
ence." He would have been the first American president to visit
there while in office.
He
