Yaw caused by aileron drag, in the opposite direction to the direction of the intended turn.
* * *
Capt. Jesús Villamor
The war had now given the boys a mien of maturity. They are chatting in low tones, the talk of the enemy possibly striking the airfield. No doubt that even Batangas is on their mind not to be spared. Despite that, no one openly talked about matters of life and death. That's why, it surprises me to hear that, away from such a crowd, César has such thoughts be remarked so casually.
"Sa kabila ng napakarami kong pangarap sa buhay. Minsan... No, rather... I suddenly feel like I am running out of time."
I don't know why I find it strange to hear such words from a man full of life and strength. From someone who is months younger than me, but seems to have a much more mature mindset than I'll ever have... From someone who seems prepared for whatever happens today or tomorrow... From someone who is about to be a married man, and at the same time, appear like someone who is just waiting for things to change somehow...
But, I guess, I shall learn some lessons from that, too. Or else, I'll forever be delusional that life will always be fair, and that death will be forgiving.
The plane vibrates against my feet preparing for some needed rudder. I keep a good watch of my altitude of five thousand feet—a safe altitude clear of obstructions—but the enemies are three thousand feet above, flying overhead from what I counted to be of two formations, each consists of twenty-seven twin-engine bombers closing in to Batangas from the north and south.
It is definitely a surprise; as we haven't heard anything from César for the first phase of his flight on to Nasugbu, and the second phase around Ragay Gulf. But looking on from where they're coming from all denotes that they came from the west—only motioning by now to pincer Batangas in an attack; and I pray that César, coming from the east, will have some sense. I am just fearful that his instincts will call on in despite much lesser fuel.
And if all of us survived this affair, I'll make sure that I'll throw that well-deserving punch at him that I manage to suppress from last night.
Tangina mo talaga, Basa, I almost scream at the radio frequency. But everyone else attuned to the frequency, aside from our six fleet men, had been shouting over the radio in frantic right after signaling all planes to attack, swooping down against the bombers and firing short bursts.
It is a common strategy in aerial combat to always have a wingman. Hot-headed and too much confident myself, I'll actually shake them off when César, returning from his almost three-hour patrol, falls into position as my wingman. But in the midst of a battle with too little chances of survival, I just hope that I'll remember reprimanding him for being too reckless and careless when I tell him otherwise.
I remember my promise—or rather, the deal—with him before leaving Manila yesterday. Nothing much more of a confrontation as this; hence that earlier reconnaissance and be back on base. I guess, he is the fool one to go against it; causing me to remember that fiancée of his.
I think you're actually marrying a dead man walking, (L/N).
Clouds offer much cover. The more altitude we gain, the more the clouds become our shields from the Zeros that accompanied those bombers. It is easy to say that the target are those bombers who certainly has the goal of bombing Batangas, all the while the Zeros served as guards to stop us from stopping them. However, no matter how every man is for himself—seven Zeros against one or even more—I can't shake off the Zeros, the same as César sticking to his position as my wingman.
At one point, the two of us are flying wing-to-wing. When we switch to signaling, conserving every oxygen in our bodies as the air grows thinner in almost ten thousand feet, I have every ounce of strength as well to almost motion my anger at him for disobeying command. But that isn't what matters now, for each time we break away and loop, the Zeros do the same. When we try to make an attempt to hit them by almost slamming the stick forward and going into a steep power drive while turning to the left, the altimeter's needles spinning widely for every hundred feet lost, and the airspeed almost going off the charts, not only César followed, but as well as those Zeros. A hundred feet before three thousand, both of us level off, and the Zeros are quick to follow. Turning right this time, starting off a vertical climb, almost sixty degrees, César precisely do the same as I watch the opposite effect then on my instruments than that one from earlier.
A rather thick cumulus cloud provides us good cover, hiding in the crevices and cracks of the great cloud. My heart is still hammering in anticipation, but losing the Zeros hunting us for a moment, I crane my neck to where César is. As any wingman does, he keeps a good-eye on me that knowing that I can't just cut in through the frequency as the others also sound their alarms for others to know of, I raise a freehand in question to this wingman I have with less than fifteen minutes of fuel by now.
I am too close in wishing to pull out all of my hair from my head when César just raises a hand in return, too; and even with how close the two of us are flying, it is a little hard to understand what his expression had been at that moment as obscured by the goggles.
Tangina talaga nito...
I am about to break through the frantic conversation over the radio myself when suddenly, our cloud cover for only a good minute disappears and we're once again visible for all the Zeros searching for us. At that moment, I instantly shove the stick forward, dive, and feel the excessive Gs as screams of bullets become much louder than the roar of all planes or the busy frequency.
Suddenly, something seems to be missing. It is not just the wingman to watch out for the back of the lead; it is also for the lead to ensure that the wingman follows. That with dread, as I turn behind me, I realize that I lost my wingman.
* * *
Lt. Geronimo Aclan
I know that there is something going on between César and Captain Villamor. It is evident with the strain of their conversation about only allowing the previous a limited supply of fuel. True, for a flight from Batangas to Nasugbu to Ragay Gulf and back, three hours' worth of fuel is enough—to be honest, more than enough as the reconnaissance flight will be some sort of like a cross-country flight alone with a specified altitude definitely high enough to lean a mixture and save fuel.
As the Officer of the Day, I am to make sure that every airmen are rouse from their sleep early on and also ensure the planes are ready when needed; additionally as well is to know when the first plane take-offs and when the last one lands. Hence, even before César walks on to his plane for take-off, him finished with his pre-flight inspection and the mechanics ready for the start-up, I manage to feed my curiosity.
"Anong mayroon sa inyo ni SC?" I ask him as I walk along with him to where the plane is parked, him all geared-up for the flight himself.
He laughs as he tucks his hair underneath his cloth helmet, securing then his goggles against his forehead by now. "Sa tanong mo na 'yan, parang may namamagitan sa amin, ha? Nagsasawa ka na rin ba, kagaya ni Antonio, na ang bukang-bibig ko lamang daw ay si (Y/N)?"
I click my tongue. "Pinagbibigyan kita ngayon dahil malapit na kayo ikasal, pero parang nakikita-kita ko na magiging katulad ka ni Manuel kapag naikasal; mas lalong mapapadalas na aalalahanin mo si (Y/N). Pero, 'yong seryoso, César. Ano bang nangyayari?"
"Last flight ko na nga ito bilang isang bachelor. Paniguradong kinakabahan lang din si kapitan na baka hindi niya ako maipadala ng Maynila na buhay para maikasal."
"Kaya nga alalahanin mo na ang gagawin mo lamang ngayon ay mag-reconnoiter. Kung may makita kang mga Hapon, sabihin mo kaagad at bumalik dito. 'Wag kang gumawa ng kung anu-ano."
"Opo, opo, Officer of the Day," he answers and claps me by the shoulder, before greeting the mechanic awaiting him and climbing on the cockpit seat rather easily.
"Tandaan mo na tatlong oras lang ang gasolina na mayroon ka. Baka akalain mo na full tank 'yan," I remind him as I watch him going on with the basic checklist of securing his seatbelt and ensuring the headphones are properly aligned with his ears now.
He nods at me, and despite being muffled, I hear him saying, "That's actually more than necessary."
Before letting him continue on with the checklist for engine start-up and heading back to the hangar, I sigh and then call for his attention again, saying the next, "Safe flight, César."
His eyes narrow slightly, hinting then a smile, as he raises a hand in acknowledgment despite definitely not hearing me and just watching the movement of my lips.
I've known, ever since flight training, that César has a way with words. That if he wants you to know something, he'll definitely be straightforward with it; but if he wants to keep it, you'll feel the creepiness and goosebumps of not knowing to eat you with curiosity. That's why, I trust him with his words; but mostly, I also doubt that of his actions.
I watch his plane take-off half an hour past eight in the morning. He first circles the field, gaining thousands of feet in doing so before heading on to the west—definitely onward to Nasugbu as the first part of his patrol—and later on to the east to Ragay Gulf. Two hours gone and César is still in the air without making contact, I feel that I am not the only one slowly slacking off; even the other airmen that are waiting wherever while keeping themselves relax and some are already thinking of lunch.
I very much assume that nothing will happen. Until the terrible pealing of bells from the direction of Batangas Church comes. Ever since the war announcement, church bells only has one meaning. That upon hearing that, I am in need of double checking it. The first sense I gain is hearing the faint purr of enemy planes, sight is the next thing in seeing dots of approaching bombers in an almost overcast sky condition.
Addition to my duties as the Officer of the Day, I beat the steel triangle loud enough, shouting frantically to make memo of the situation, "Japs! The Japs are here!"
With only six P-26As serviceable, one out with César somewhere on the east by now, it is agreed by everyone that, except for the Squadron Commander's plane, any Peashooters can be flown by the first pilot who'll reach it first in the advent of an attack. And it isn't only me and a few others who are rushing for a chance of the aerial combat, even mechanics are eager to help in starting the planes; all others in position for ground defense.
I reach one of the planes first. My body acting on the way that I've been trained to. A quick rundown of the checklist is something I already memorize in my head, and I follow after Capt. Villamor down the lone runway for take-off. And with every intention to serve as his wingman, someone else beats me on that work.
César! I think, recognizing his plane's number and the sudden arrival when I am sure that I follow after the captain's plane myself in take-off. At tangina mo talaga, ilang fuel na lang ang natitira sa Peashooter mo na 'yan?
But another thing surfaces in my mind. Suddenly remembering his explanation about the concern that Capt. Villamor has. However, with a signal from Godoy, and the radio frequency be immediately bombarded with too many voices right now—not only from those flying but also from those on ground—I lose my sight of Capt. Villamor and César, focusing then on my own fight as it appears that the bombers are escorted by Zeros that didn't only outclass us but outnumbered us by a tremendous margin.
The Zeros already have their aims at us and begin firing. It takes me a moment to realize what is going on when cannon shell and machine gun fire start whipping past my plane.
I then follow after Manuel, executing a half roll to foil the aim of the Zeros, firing to the right the next before executing a dive. The best option by now is to remain about tree level; and with Zeros following after the two of us, I can bet that those few minutes of burning altitude are the longest moments of my life. After all, since Zeros are faster, it will be much more fatal for them to get so low as us just by the height of treetops; that circling around the perimeter of Bauan Church's belfry almost take me back to the early lessons of eight-on-pylons. In the end, the Zero following me gives up, and I also lost sight of Manuel.
But the dogfight didn't end at once. Who knows how long it had been that when the clouds become thicker overhead, the Zeros finally break off and follow the bombers away from Batangas... though not after ensuring that the airfield is reduced to an equivalent rubble.
Someone calls for my plane's tail number over the radio, before it becomes an urgent question, "Aclan? Aclan! Saan ka pupunta?!"
My decision set, I answer back, "After them."
I pull the connections of my headset, cutting off the rest of the frequency. With only the sound of my plane's engine, I follow after the bombers in hope to catch them with the fighting still pumping through my nerves.
I am not yet done.
* * *
Lt. Godofredo Juliano
I think the mechanics from here had heard from the others what happened two days ago at Zablan. That at the advent that the Peashooters were being raked by canon and machine gun fire from Japanese Zeros, I headed on to one of the parked aircraft and signaled for a mechanic, hiding in a foxhole, to help me with the start-up and crank the engine. But no one dared and they refused; and in my anger, I left the cockpit another time and took my .45 caliber pistol out of the holster. At once, one of the mechanics, ran to the aircraft and started the engine before returning back to the foxhole.
Or perhaps, the mechanics of the Sixth Pursuit Squadron are indeed much braver than those left in the training grounds of Zablan. I prefer this reasoning than gaining balls just from hearing such a story in fear of my wrath.
However, I'll definitely tell them that it is better to experience that of my wrath than the wrath of the Japs. Are they seriously considering that it is the safer option?
With an all-powered Peashooter, I follow after Aclan in the take-off. During the climb-out as it had been a decision among us to draw closer to the first formation of bombers at about eight thousand feet, I try to have a good count of the bombers that make me question which should we target first, definitely my fingers hovering onto the guns. However, I see it—the bombers' escort, the Zeros, diving from our right.
Not only with a hand signal we share, but also through the chaotic radio frequency, I scream, "Zeros!"
Whatever formation we have break apart at once as I bank to the left, following behind me, now positioning himself as my wingman, is Antonio; the four others, with César having returned from more than two hours of patrol joining with the fighting, heading the other.
Wait, what? I blink and indeed account for four other Peashooters aside from me and Antonio. Like what the actual fuck ang pinag-iisip mo, César?!
It is true that lead and wingman are necessary for aerial combat; but there could be a lead and two wingmen. And what the heck of an idea it is to join a battle with barely enough fuel remaining? True, it will make him move faster as his plane is lighter; but it doesn't change the fact that he is consuming minutes alone than hours!
Zeros then start hurling bullets at me, making me focus with the trouble of shaking them off my tail.
"Putanginang mga Hapon!" I curse as I put the Peashooter to the test limit of seemingly impossible maneuvers that I fear will cause the plane not just to buffet to a stall, but to ultimately start breaking apart in mid-air due to structural damage of snap-rolling, spiraling and looping instead of being used as a target practice.
However, the Zeros are definitely much agile that banking and diving are easy for them, at the same time that they pump shells at us.
The fight is chaotic; and the radio is also one with commands and screams very much from the ground than those of us in the air. Somehow, it makes me feel alive and alert that the Zeros are a distraction for us not to stop the bombers that those on ground of the Batangas Airfield struggle to fight off with whatever defensive armament we have.
A quick glance behind me, I account for a whole group of Zeros after me and Antonio. I then bank and make a vertical reverse to get under the belly of the first Zeros.
But the enemy predicts such move that he maintains his altitude. We are caught in such a maneuver, until after a sixth time, the Zero suddenly breaks off and another takes up its place while firing its guns at me.
"Putangina talaga," I mutter through gritted teeth as I cut off my throttle, ensuring not my mixture, and as the airspeed decreases at once, coming to the safe speed, I deploy the flaps, leading for the Zero to pass over me. I instantly charge my guns, grinning as I know that I suddenly gain the upper hand.
But it seems like it is not my day. That in my excitement, the charging handle comes off in my hands. And the left gun will not charge, and in my additional frenzy of what is going on, losing the seconds of opportunity, I pull quite too much that even the cable of the right gun breaks.
Knowing that I am very much a dead meat for the fastest fighters in the world to eradicate me without anything to fight for, I push in the throttle, roaring the engine back to full power as I head on for the gathering cloud cover, retracting the flaps slowly one by one as I keep hiding while all around me, the sporadic burst of deadly tracers is certainly in search of me, too.
Tangina naman talaga, I ponder. To find my guns jammed... Bwiset!
My only option by now is when I spot a Zero, I'll just need to race after it and try ramming it instead. Even that chance is almost just a faint hope to be possible. Not because of my fear of a broken landing gear or wing, but if I'll only be able to catch them for their speed...
Then, when the cloud slowly grows thin, I catch sight of Antonio for another time as his plane heels out of control, fire and smoke trailing from the tail. I hold my breath as I follow after it in hopes to ensure his safety, and finally, when the plane rolls, he manages to bail out; free-falling thousands of feet with his parachute bag carefully secured on his back.
"Juliano," I hear someone calling for me over the radio, and a quick turn to the side, as some sort of instinct on ground to search for the sound, I notice that Capt. Villamor's plane is now flying alongside me. He signals for me to fly with him, and I understand at that moment his intentions.
I wave back, and together we roll over a sharp, fast turn, almost wing-to-wing as we head straight to a lone Zero, previously after Antonio's plane and now after his free-falling figure before opening the parachute for safety. We almost catch the Zero unaware, but definitely upon sensing us, he cuts away from us trailing and leave Antonio alone.
Almost by the tree lines, Antonio opens up his parachute; and I and Capt. Villamor breaks away. For me, even without any working guns, I have every intention to chase after Zeros.
And I will. I'll show to them that if they know how to chase after us, they should also run away from us.
* * *
Lt. Manuel Conde
When I hear the bells from the nearby church ringing and then the additional striking of the signals that we have among us in the airfield, I can swear that my first instinct is to flee; but as part of instilled routine in me, I head straight to an available Peashooter close to the runway. At the back of my mind, I am praying that someone will be fast enough to be there and all five planes will be filled by another airmen; however, I reach one of the planes with just a mechanic waiting, frantically urging me in for him to be done with the cranking of the plane for start-up.
My hands are shaking, but they are immediately switching and flipping on necessary controls that lead for the plane to constantly have that hum of life. And before I know it, I am already up in the air along with the others; suddenly hoping once more that I am on the ground than be up in the air. It had been a common reminder for all of us. True that, as a pilot, there is nothing else for us to do but to fly; but we shall also keep ourselves grounded to the earth. It is to learn when of the fact that there are days that it will be better to be on the ground than be up in the air, especially when every take-off is optional and every landing is compulsory.
Compared to the five other pilots who have their hands on the other planes themselves, today is my first time to test the limits of my training with all the mock dogfights we have. Four of them can account for this time as their third encounter against the Japanese, and César, ever the dutiful soldier tied to flight ever since I know of him during our training days, despite not being asked to add another tally on his record of battle, still decides to make this second encounter.
"They're definitely fast. Those fucking Japs," Lt. Jose Gozar said through gritted teeth during last night's game of cards on our table. He was one of those who encountered the Zeros two days ago; with Lt. Alberto Aranzaso having to remain in Manila as César takes his plane back to Batangas.
Hindi ko talaga maintindihan kung ano ang pumapasok sa isipan ni César, I ponder. Hindi naman niya kailangan bumalik, lalo na't malapit na siyang ikasal... Pero, tangina, bakit?
If I'll be asked and be given the same opportunity, I'll not even take the job order of being called to return to Batangas less than a week from my own wedding, only then be given a clearance to take the drive down the road back to Manila. Especially now... I'll not even dare take such risk.
However, all those mock dogfights aren't even really close to the actual battle itself. Our training had always consisted of equal grouping, and I remember one time César pointing out that it is not even at all that realistic when he explained the reason behind executing such a dangerous maneuver during practice almost three months ago. Now, I am understanding such ordeal: you can't expect the enemies to always play fair. Most of the time, you'll find yourself on the disadvantage; and in such great one as now with an almost seven is to one ratio.
I am breathing heavily as if I've been running for miles. I know that it is all about my own fear as I try to shake off several Zeros not only from my six o'clock but as well as from my tail, causing me to dive towards the town of Bauan, two nautical miles away from the airfield. A quick look behind me once more tells me that I've lost Geronimo, who've been flying behind me since breaking away from formation upon finding the Zeros heading to us for shake us off from the bombers. But as I continue with my descent, the Zeros then try on to line-up behind me and make firing passes at me.
Putangina talaga nitong mga Hapon na ito! I almost scream along to the countless voices speaking at the traffic all at once, clearly showing how chaotic things had been. How unorthodox everything had been than to how we've been during practice sessions.
In memory of our early study of navigation, the most visible landmark for each and every town had been the churches due to their height and belfry. With that, I make use of orbiting around Bauan Church, spiraling lower and lower to almost position the aircraft's wingtip to the church than to the belfry—I am almost at the same altitude as that of the latter; making use of ground maneuvers of orbiting around a point or some eight-on-pylons to discourage the Japs from following after.
I think that I have the best grasp of the situation. Too many of the Zeros back away at once, but it didn't stop a bold one to follow. After all, there's not only the problem of the belfry but as well as the radio antennas that I know too well for the past few months that we've been commencing mock dogfights around the area, hoping that he will get tangled by it somehow. And yet, even if it may appear somehow foolish, it is also quite too bold of him.
Or perhaps, not just too bold with his own agenda. For he once resumes to firing back at me, not even thinking of how much destruction it will then cause to civilian lives. I actually don't get it; why are they putting such a show against those who actually do not have the strength to fight them? What kind of honor can they achieve from that?
Suddenly, my plane veers to the left. It is quite strange that a pilot instantly receives some reaction out of the plane at once before the sound of something hitting metal can be fully registered by the brain. I know by then that I am hit as smoke trails behind me, and due to my own surprise, I almost lose hold of the altitude that I instantly pitch up slightly, trying to identify the problem.
Perhaps, due to the smoke and my immediate response or with his own trouble of keeping up being so low, the Zero who've made the shot finally decides to leave me behind as I hear his own engine being feed with life and he heads onward.
But enough with it, I am still lucky to be spared from the worst. For I still have a good pitch control, signifying that my elevator is working fine; but I keep on yawing to the left, evident with how the ball of the turn coordinator keeps showing an uncoordinated turn as I roll to the right, almost skidding in the process. That's when I try to resolve the uncoordinated flight problem with the rudder pedals—ball to the right, I step on the right pedal—but to no avail. Yawing and turning no matter how I manage to stabilize the aircraft's altitude and airspeed, it keeps showing incoordination. I get it at once, my rudder is the one hit.
The smoke and almost trailing fire behind me are enough reminders to make me worry, but landing at Batangas isn't ideal. As we fail to eradicate the bombers after being occupied by those Zeros, there is no doubt that bombs hit home. The only option of survival is to land somewhere else. The most ideal, with the fuel that I still have, with the fire definitely trailing the tail that with speed I can somehow dissipate... Nichols will be the best option, roughly forty to fifty nautical miles away. Twenty minutes that I can manage with a not movable rudder; something I can somehow spare as long as nothing else goes wrong—like being spotted by another Zero to be fired at another time.
Hindi pa ito ang huli, I tell myself. There's always a chance to fight another day. As long as we are alive.
And I still want to meet my child.
* * *
Lt. Antonio Mondigo
I take a quick look of the time from my wristwatch—a quarter to eleven, it reads. I sigh heavily, almost drumming my fingers in both anticipation and fear against my thigh as I crane my neck and look on at the other's before asking, "Anong oras ulit umalis si César?"
"Mga thirty minutes past eight," Godoy remarks. "Pabalik na rin iyon. Mukhang walang mga Hapon para sa atin ngayon."
I want to breathe a sigh of relief upon hearing those words. After encountering two dogfights just a day ago, I shiver at the prospect that the Japanese will be coming for us to seek vengeance. I also even wonder if it will actually just be that, or they'll definitely return with every intention to pulverize all of us. I also want to believe that César is indeed coming back bearing the news that he hadn't seen any sight of the enemy during his patrol.
I am actually uneasy with this. Even if I know that this is his last assignment before being shipped back to Manila for his wedding, and that he'll definitely return as a married man, it is strange how he seems to be acting yesterday. It troubles me a lot; knowing that even a man as him—rational beyond any sense of doubt—will be doing something stupid just because he had put his head first before his heart.
"I suddenly feel like I am running out of time."
I breathe out in both dismay and embarrassment. I already lost count of how many times I did. That I even pray much to all of our safety; but very much so, too, for him to see beyond reason. However, it seems like it is too much to ask of the Heavens; that when the signals had been sounded for the incoming arrival of the Japanese, and our small group comes into formation against the daunting number of the enemies, I count six Peashooters.
Six? I ponder for a second, knowing fully that there's only five of the planes available for combat right now. But another count, and I realize the plane that had left roughly three hours earlier than the rest of us is reporting to position.
Putangina mo talaga, César Basa.
Before I can cut through the radio frequency and blurt out all of my anger at the moment, with a series of curses at the very tip of my tongue, Godoy signals for everyone else to see, impossible to miss when the bombers are undisturbed by our presence and Zeros come to view as they charge straight on. Their guns aimed at us as they start firing, we immediately break away from our formation—the rest of them breaking to the right, as I and Godoy make a hard veer to the left.
Putangina na nga ni César; lalo pang sumasapaw sa pagka-putangina nitong mga Hapon! Tangina talaga, napakaputangina lang din talaga ng mga Hapon sa kahit saang anggulo!
It is quite hard to get a good count of the Zeros. But it is much a swarm of them, like some plague that definitely makes their presence very well-known. This is not just some revenge; this is some sort of a decision of total obliteration. Whatever practice formation from before is now useless, as everyone else understands that the assignment is to fight for our own lives and make it home.
After all, it had been the common agenda. I've earlier learned my lessons about it a day ago. Right up here, no one's actually going to save any of us. Will it then be better to be on the ground at this time? I will not even dare dream of such possibility being unarmed below when I can fight up here.
Thankfully, Batangas had been a training ground of ours. It is the Sixth Pursuit Squadron's cradle that we can work on our advantage. We know every crook, the necessary altitude and not so dangerous speeds, the winds, and the movements of weather. The overcast clouds right now are helpful as we know by time alone how far off course we can be from one part to another, and it also hides us too well in view. The clouds offering shield for us to grow silent for a moment, trying to get a good grasp of things and then be attuned to a nearby Zero for us to aim at and catch off guard.
If we can't equate them with speed, then we must beat them with strategy.
I lost count of how many times I move in and out of the clouds, making use of the building cumulus clouds as cover and trying to make a killing shot. Though I don't know if it had been much, whenever a Zero realizes that action of mine, I'll then move in through another. Almost hopping like a frog from one lily pad to another.
Until I see a Peashooter, with the familiar plane number in memory, suddenly catching smoke. I almost freeze; almost wanting to head straight to the rescue in search of any sign of life, of some survival, of some chance of escaping another dance with Death. And then, a parachute had been released from the respective plane itself; and a Zero suddenly sweeps close and start shooting on it. I shiver at the prospect of having to hang helplessly and be riddled with bullets, and my blood run cold at the aftermath.
However, my own plane shakes, banking at a rather steep turn that my sense of direction seems to be evaded by the frantic reading of the instruments. There is no time for sorrows and mourning; at the end of the day, it will definitely harden me. And for now, I blink quickly to remove the threatening build of tears from my eyes, gaining a chance as well to survive instead.
At the same time that the altimeter starts turning counterclockwise with every loss of altitude, the airspeed indicator gushing with its reading than what the aircraft structure can take, and the gyroscopic ball of the turn coordinator showing a very well-uncoordinated flight... I can't help but skip in trying an emergency procedure to save the plane, and instead, head straight to bailing out. I easily remove the seatbelt at once, feeling the wind against my face, almost causing my scarf to flap behind me. The plane is definitely uncontrollable as I make a quick trial of the controls once more—the joystick and the rudder pedals—but they aren't responding at all as the plane continues its descent of trailing smoke and fire. With that, I let the aircraft roll slightly to the side before slipping myself out instead. Free-falling to the ground from eight thousand feet.
I try to keep myself as small as possible, wanting not to catch any Zeros' attention and holding my parachute bag close as well. I know that free-falling is so fast that the next minute, I'll find myself on the ground, compared to a gliding airplane. However, looking on at the sky, it seems like it is quite too long of a fall; that everything feels like they are happening in quite a slow motion.
Right after bailing out, as if someone had caught sight of my presence in the otherwise cloudy visibility and after ensuring that my Peashooter is nothing but of falling metal debris from the sky, a Zero then turns its attention to me. Doing so, I turn a quick look to the ground, trying to gauge how much feet I have remaining from such a free-fall as I know fully that doing so will give the Zero a much larger target. And I close my eyes, pray so hard to the Heavens that I'll be spared from a random shot, and hope that if I'll not be too lucky, then I rest everything to what awaits everyone in the end.
But a duo of Peashooters heads straight to the diving Zero, and as if eager to add another score of possible kills, take the bait and follow after another. A few milliseconds later, and I'll definitely be an addition to the number of casualties.
Roughly a thousand feet from the ground—as I or any pilots will be familiar of at all with our altitude based on how close we are from the earth even without any instrument to read on—I open my parachute, finding a small field to land on, and sight a group of folks that seems to notice me and are starting to head on to the spot where I may touch the ground.
I am able to breathe a sigh of relief—ecstatic, to be exact—to find out that my countrymen are so eager to help me. There is no doubt that with the sound of our planes, and with how we fly, they are definitely watching from below to pray that our campaign against an enormous number of enemies will be successful.
Easing my fall to the grassy field, I almost kiss the earth to thank God that I am still alive. The parachute covers me, and with all the strength that I still have out of my shaky legs, I stand up and start to entangle myself; then frowning upon hearing the growing voices of the people shouting with a clear intent of... Is that anger I can audibly hear from them than compassion?
The moment that I catch sight of the situation I am in out of the parachute, I freeze.
Susmaryosep! Seryoso ba ito? Seryoso ba sila?!
And it is not just one that is aimed too closely at me, but a number of them surrounds me. Through my almost foggy goggles, I immediately raise my hands in surrender to find out that I am really surrounded by gulok-armed townspeople!
"Hapon! Hapon!" one from them shouts, and the others chant eagerly then, "Patayin ang Hapon!"
I scoff. "W-Wait—"
They come closer now, and continue repeating their idea of trying to kill me.
I grit my teeth. After surviving a close-death against a Jap, it seems like my countrymen will be the very ones who are going to kill me! And so, I angrily and hurriedly take off my goggles and cloth helmet, then shout back at them, "Putangina! Hindi ba kayo nakakakilala ng Pilipino?!"
This time, it is their turn to stop and look at me in great wonder.
I know; I often get those looks—that look that seems to stop for a moment upon meeting me, wondering if they must start speaking in English or Tagalog, and in the end be surprised with how native my accent is. After all, even if I have a German father that makes me appear fairer than the others, I've been living here with him and my Filipino mother; to the point that I even opt in using my mother's last name just to enter PAAC. In the end, and definitely all over again, my decision is to be a Filipino and serve the Philippines.
One from them draws closer and looks at me intently, ensuring that my eyes are not slanting and my features are much more of a mestizo than that of a Japanese, nods the next and finally lowers his gulok to turn to the others with a laugh of his own, saying, "Ala eh, Pinoy pala!"
They suddenly cheer. As if the moment of wishing to have me dead a few seconds ago didn't happen at all.
I manage to sigh heavily, almost of embarrassment and disappointment, as they usher me then to safety and keep on asking me how they can help me and the others. That's when things seem to settle back at me, causing me to look up at the sky another time. No doubt that there is no way we can help the fighting going on mid-air; but it also make me ask them another thing that worries me the most. I may know the outcome already; however, I want to have some assurance of it.
"Ah! 'Yong kaninang parakaida?" not only one but too many of them exclaims at once, definitely sure of what I am talking about. They then shake their heads. "Walang nakasabit doon."
* * *
Lt. Victor Osias
When the war broke out five days ago, everyone in the Sixth Pursuit Squadron was given their respective command. Half of us, majority being those younger than others, were sent to Manila via trucks, that upon arrival, all of us were shaken by the prospect of having to deal with helping in whatever way we can from the ground. The inventory of planes is never in our favor; as there are more airmen like us than there are aircraft to begin with. Hence, we take in the order with pride; wanting to be of help in any way possible.
However, to be assigned from Zablan then to Nichols is all a different matter. True, both fields are being bombed by the Japanese for previous days already, but it is still quite a struggle to have a good grasp of what is actually going on. After all, bombs are falling faster and those Japanese Zeros often ground strafe groups of people they can point out too close to the planes that can still be used.
In our PMA class of 1940, seventeen of us had been part of PAAC and six of us are part of the Sixth Pursuit Squadron. Even though we all continue having connections with our former classmates, it isn't as closely knitted as before. After all, I am not only speaking for that of myself, but being part of the elite Sixth had urged us to be part of such a small and celebrated unit. Not too many can fly, and we take pride of it; drawing us to activities among PAAC and the social parties we often attend before the breakout of the war.
And though we've been sharing experiences of the war for the past few days already, only one of us had managed to be part of the aerial combat himself.
"Hanggang ngayon, nanginginig pa rin ako," Alberto Aranzaso, our PMA classmate who've been given the privilege to join Capt. Villamor and a few other aces for that trip to Clark and a patrol mission over Bataan Peninsula, and be quick enough to reach for a plane during the noon attack of Zablan two days ago, told me last night when he requested for some sleeping pills from me.
He seemed to be so different compared to the rest of us who didn't join the dogfighting against the Japanese; and it wasn't wrong of me to say with finality that he appeared like a changed man. And though I didn't wish to hand to him my own set of sleeping pills, fearing that he would be dependent of it as I am starting to be, I finally relented. I've been struggling to have a good sleep ever since arriving in Manila during the outbreak of this war, fearful that if I sleep, I'll no longer wake up or I'll find myself in the middle of a mass grave assumed to be dead.
I wanted to ask him about what actually happened, for him to open up at least to me, if not to everyone else. I don't think that either Pedro, Urbano, Horacio or Bart will be able to hear his side. After all, we knew of Bert being quite too selfless of himself to shoulder things like this—even the horrors of war from mid-air.
"Hindi ako makatulog ng maayos, Vic," he added, gulping in hard. "Alam ko na nahihirapan din kayo, pero..." He pressed his hands against his face, quite embarrassed as he breathed in heavily. "Tangina..."
In the end, I didn't ask him to continue further on. I knew that I was too close in hearing everything, but I knew that it would haunt him forever. It would be a scar that he would carry for who knew how long—at least, for his entire lifetime—and perhaps, not today, but I prayed that he would make peace of those demons later on. So, I still gave to him that of mine.
As if I'll be needing one or two that night. Japanese planes started the bombing of Nichols even before dawn. They've been shaking the grounds of Manila for four days in a row already, almost in too many successive times that they are already starting to commence another series of attacks after a momentary spite of rest that we manage to evacuate more of the wounded and gather up the dead. This time, sleep being quite a struggle to attain, I, like too many others, is up to my feet to help in any way possible—which is usually in applying first aids or being there to the other's last few seconds.
I sigh heavily by the time that the bells ring a second time for today. It no longer takes me by surprise or in panic after a series of scenarios; for the past few days had made me be accustomed of it. I pull myself away from where I've been taking a short rest at the back room, disregarding the chance to wash my hands at least, as it will be useless to do so if I'll just find them dirty once more, and only opt for a drink of water as my stomach hadn't been processing food easily.
A minute later, the first of the bombers' can be heard drawing closer from above, and someone shouts for everyone to get down as a bomb follows the sound and drops to the ground, causing the earth to shake. A large mushroom of smoke and blazing fire erupts at one end of the field. There is nothing much on that part of Nichols, just some trees, as the bombers from the past few days somehow reduce the airfield already to nothingness. Thankfully, some still-standing buildings too far off the runway and hangars, almost blending along with the civilian neighbors except for the walls that continue to separate the military from the world outside, aren't part of any target practice of the Japanese.
Pushing myself up at once when the initial shake dissipates, I run along with the others for not only a new set of cover but also towards whoever will be in need of help. After all, something that the enemies also know of—even almost empty places will still find some casualty.
However, aside from the all too familiar sound of the Japanese bombers and Zeros, one thing definitely stands out more than anything. If you've been flying that respective plane for too many times than anything else, there is no doubt that you grow accustomed to all of it—not just with how it appears or moves under your controls, but definitely feel it being too close and by its sound alone. It is like feeling that it is watching you from afar and slowly drawing closer to you.
When the first wave of bombers complete its initial run, a moment that I somehow had forgotten with how I've suddenly been so transfixed with the view of the overcast sky, a lone Peashooter's silhouette cuts through compared to the enemies. It is trailing smoke, and the stillness of its engine is some great question in my mind of how come it can be here at this time. After all, no other Peashooters could be found anywhere in the country, aside from those remaining to be in Batangas.
I am drawn to it. Any pilot so familiar of an aircraft will do so. Hence, I follow where it is heading on and try to catch up with it; finding for myself that despite the too many potholes caused by the bombs in the middle of the runway, the Peashooter is bold enough to dare make a landing. Definitely not a normal nor safe one, but one that with great skills can still make its pilot walk out freely.
It is a little struggle to come across the reduce rubble of the hangars, trying to make it to the side of the runway littered with airmen with the airfield's ground defense, others helping the recently injured ones or collecting at once the ones who've perished at the earlier attack just a minute ago. And for some reasons, it continues to pull me away from all of it, taking me to ensure that the crippled Peashooter and its pilot made it on the ground—and it did.
The Peashooter, almost skidding at the end of the runway with a broken landing gear and deployed flaps, is quite a miracle to remain still completely compact. However, the smoke that had trailed at the tail seems to start catching fire that the pilot itself is quick to recognize for him to waste no other time to move out of the plane. Incidentally, it is quite a miracle; but something feels so wrong for me.
And it didn't take too long for me to realize what it is. As the pilot had been quick to remove most of his gear—from the cloth helmet, goggles, scarf and leather jacket or anything—that can slow his run down for some shelter, the sound of the fearful Zero cuts through the sky. In seconds, one airman shouts for everyone to get down or move away from the open field, as the Zero then descends from its flight and strafes the runway, catching the end of the Peashooter bursting into flames before the Japanese climbs back out.
Whatever my eyes are seeing or my ears are hearing, it seems like my body jumps in to the midst of danger itself. I know that I'll be scolded by my parents—at death, definitely—if they figure out that I run towards where the Zero would strafe the openness. But how can anyone blame me? For the past few days, I've lost people that I've known throughout my training, and it had been some sort of an assurance that I am yet to lose someone I share fond memories of to death. Losing them through trauma is equally painful, but I believe that time will heal us; however, death... Death is something that had been too unforgiving. Even for someone who in his strength and youth had been a fellow.
I take a shaky gasp, feeling the threatening tears first of all even before managing to ease his fall almost into my arms. And I carry on his weight against me, wielding him up his feet, if able, despite knowing that I am fooling myself as I mutter, almost choking on my own words, "Hey. Hey, I got you." I gulp in hard. "I got you."
Perhaps, there had been a reason to all of it.
That it isn't only anyone's blood which will taint me more than it did for the past few days; hence, I even didn't dare to wash them off and the dirt earlier on. That there is a reason why I've been so transfixed with the Peashooter, knowing fully that only a member of the Sixth Pursuit Squadron can be behind the controls, and even that group is already a family of mine who shares not just my interest with flying, but had been there through the thick and thin of that strange and complex affection to planes and the sky. That it is a very upsetting, very moving, very saddening experience.
I can feel his blood on my arms and hands, the weight of death starting to pull us down as my legs give in. I didn't know that I've been shaking nor that I am crying that the sobs catch on my throat as a heavy lump in my chest. "It's okay, it's okay," I mutter, but it feels like I am assuring myself instead. Perhaps, it is because I didn't find myself in a situation as this yet; a dying man lumps against me as my arms remain around his body that now appears like a broken doll. I can't help grasping for the fabric of his bloody flight suit, trying to stop my hands from shaking, feeling then where he is hit from that ground strafing earlier. I add, "It's all over now. I got you."
He breathes in slowly, mumbles, and goes limp against me.
I take a shaky gasp before holding on to him much tighter. After all, when he breathed his last, it also feels like a part of me had died, and I am much more of a changed man than anyone else.
In the end, what left his lips isn't just life, but also love.
* * *
Teaser for the next chapter:
"Magiging maayos lang ang lahat, at ikaw ang magbibigay nito sa kanila. They'll much want to receive this from you than from me."
He scoffed, smiling softly as he closed his eyes, and held on to the small piece of paper. "Thank you."
And even before I could pull my hands from that of his, he breathed his last.
* * *
A/N: Vote, comment and share! Whatever you do means a lot to me, and I am really wishing for some feedback!
This is one of the chapters that I've mentioned from the previous chapter to be the one I've enjoyed writing, too, because of the other POVs from our beloved characters. :> Like some POV of theirs concerning a respective scenario. And I guess, this is the longest one as of to date.
An update regarding my anxiety concerning my own flying phase. Well, I passed the Instrument Rating Check ride Skill Test! A total of 1 hour and 20 minutes, I've been assigned to the RPLC-local for RAYAT 2A SID, DME arc entry for VOR Rwy 20, Missed Approach and ILS Rwy 02. Yeah, DME arc, the very procedure most tried to avoid doing because of trying to maintain a respecting distance away, while flying in either level flight or descending or climbing, and turning to the next heading to maintain the charted DME distance... 🫣🥹 Sorry for the upcoming spam of now being an Instrument Rated, too! After all the reviews and notes and everything. 🥹🥹🥹
A few list of notes to share!
1. Like from the previous chapter, I decided to start with Capt. Villamor's words, that is exactly incorporated from his book, They Never Surrendered. It is like a reminder once more to everyone that these pilots weren't much older than we first thought of them, and that the war turned people to be such.
2. What is a chaotic frequency? Simply chaotic? Kidding. It is when too many people are speaking on the same frequency at every spare moment possible, or at the same time. In the present, it exists in the form of a CTAF (Common Traffic Advisory Frequency) for the VFR or low-flying planes. With too many pilots on the same frequency, someone will always be speaking at the same time and you'll need to find a moment to report at once. Speaking slow is actually not advisable because too many are also in need of reporting, too. To be honest, I am missing that chaotic CTAF. If you have a radio, you can try tuning to 121.9 MHz. For a much chaotic tuning, around the area of Iba; Lingayen; San Fernando, La Union; or Vigan. And also during Monday to Saturday from 0800 to 1500. It was all given that too many aircraft are flying at that time.
3. In every gain of altitude, air is thinner. The very reason as well that the higher planes flew, the less fuel they are in need of using. As a precautionary note, at 3,000 feet, leaning the mixture from rich is necessary in order not to feed the engine more fuel than the necessary air and fuel ratio. But for the P-26As in combat, it is not advisable with the changing altitude; but, additionally, for César who've been in patrol, he could've saved much more fuel than the expected fifteen minutes remaining if he had leaned the mixture. Additionally, as air is thinner, oxygen is also thinner; hence, airliners are pressurized. At 10,000 feet supplemental oxygen is necessary. I noticed that Filipino pilots do not have oxygen supply. After all, a P-26As coffin corner is at 27,000 feet as its service ceiling is at 27,400 feet.
4. One basic principles of flight is that: Pitch down, altitude decreases, airspeed increases; and pitch up, altitude increases, airspeed decreases. Why is that? Given that there is no change in the throttle configuration, it is because when a plane pitches up or increasing its altitude, the plane is attempting to climb. This means it is fighting against both drag and gravity, and it needs to work harder. The same way as it is when you pitch down that airspeed increases. This method is called as "pitch for airspeed" which is essential for landing under Instrument Flight Rules (IFR) or as per the published charts, as it correlates with "power for glideslope".
5. Planes are like cars which have their unique registration number. This alphanumeric registration number could be found on the wings and by the end section of the fuselage. Its size is consistent for all planes; hence, the bigger the plane, the smaller they could be.
6. Originally, the order of take-offs had been: Capt. Jesús Villamor, Lt. Antonio Mondigo, Lt. Godofredo Juliano, Lt. Geronimo Aclan, and Lt. Manuel Conde. However, for the prospect of the story, I switched the take-off order to that of: Villamor, Aclan, Juliano, Mondigo and Conde. Anyhow, I stick to the prospect of the lead and wingman as mentioned in the accounts as in the story and at the same time as mentioned by Villamor in his book, that César manages to join them contrary to the other's accounts that he was intercepted before he could help. With that, the lead and wingman are the following pairing: Villamor and Basa, Juliano and Mondigo, Aclan and Conde; it appears that it had been consistent, somehow, with how the accords of the others mirror that of their own pairs.
7. Eight-on-pylons is actually the most complex ground reference maneuver. It isn't just to draw a figure-eight pattern, but with wind and maintaining altitude also makes it quite a hassle to completely perform. I am glad to master such a technique in preparation for my CPL check, and be trained by the best flight instructor. Anyway, since it is a ground reference maneuver, such maneuver is to be practice to as low as 500 or 700 feet above ground and as high as 1,500 feet. Anything beyond, and it is no longer a ground reference maneuver.
8. Throttle idle vs mixture idle. If a throttle is set on idle, don't panic; but if a mixture is set on idle, panic. Why? Both just causes the propeller to stop, so why not just panic for both? Well, if you're flying, idling the throttle will cause the propeller to windmill and not completely stop. Because there's air and you have altitude still for it to cause such. And there's still a fuel and air mixture right there for one's disposal. Pushing in the throttle will cause the propeller to turn once more; unless there's really an engine failure. But, a mixture idle? It practically cuts off the fuel and air mixture, completely stopping the engine itself. So, throttle idle is not worth panicking; some landings are also done with a throttle idle. But a mixture idle is a very good recipe for disaster.
9. Ailerons, elevators and rudder are the primary flight controls of an airplane. Ailerons could be found on the trailing ends of the wings that causes an airplane to roll on its longitudinal axis; so a roll to the left will cause the left aileron to go up and right aileron to go down, and vice versa. Elevators could be found on the trailing edge of the horizontal stabilizer on the empennage (tail) that causes an airplane to pitch on its lateral axis; so a pitch up causes the elevators to go up, and vice versa. And the rudder could be found on the trailing edge of the vertical stabilizer on the empennage (tail) that causes an airplane to yaw on its vertical axis; so a step on the left pedal, rudder deflect to the left, and vice versa.
10. The Sixth Pursuit Squadron had been training around Batangas for quite some time already before the war happened. Any pilot who've been training around the area will definitely be aware of its advantages and disadvantages such as the highest and lowest points, the areas where winds are much turbulent, and how weather builds in the area. An example of this is how we understand that a landing on runway 01 would cause us to have a turbulent final approach compared to that of on runway 19; or an airwork exercise over Botolan will be a turbulent one due to its closeness to the mountains and such.
11. A steep turn or bank is roughly at 45 to 60 degrees. A 45 degree bank has a 1.5 G, while a 60 degree bank has a 2 G. Gs or G-force is the force of gravity that one experience; on ground, we experience 1 G. So a 2 G is feeling twice your own weight. Such turn could disorient a pilot, causing a spatial disorientation; wherein the only solution will be is to trust the instruments. At such steep turn, the instruments will usually be in a frantic reading because everything is practically happening so fast.
12. Lt. Antonio Mondigo indeed bailed out at 8,000 feet after his plane was hit by Japanese Zeros. To save him from being riddled with bullets, Lt. Godofredo Juliano caught the attention of the Zero who wished to kill Mondigo as he free-falls; and according to his book, Capt. Jesús Villamor even helped in doing so. One thousand feet from the ground, Mondigo opened his parachute and exactly have the same encounter as mentioned: he was surrounded by the angry gulok-wielding townspeople, and plead with them that he wasn't a Japanese.
13. According to the diary of Comm. Ramon Alcazar, 32 of his classmates from PMA Class 1940 tried to be part of PAAC, but only 17 managed to earn their wings. He mentioned that five of them were assigned to be part of the Sixth Pursuit Squadron under Lt. Jesús Villamor on 11 June 1941:they are Bartolome Cabangbang, Alberto Aranzaso, Urbano Caldoza, Horacio Farolan and Pedro Aragon. Victor Osias wasn't mentioned of the list, though he was also mentioned on that diary to be assigned as a flight instructor of PAAC Flying School. However, there was quite an inconsistency with the history of the Philippine Air Force as mentioned in The Philippine Air Force Story; that it is only by the end of July, before the impending integration of PAAC under USAFFE that they decided to reactivate the 6th Pursuit Squadron and chose Villamor to lead it. Additionally, Villamor also mentioned that it was only at the induction of PAAC to USAFFE that he was assigned for the 6th Pursuit Squadron, as he also noted in his book, They Never Surrendered, that he was a flight instructor beforehand; saying that no other pilot would earn their wings until he got to fly with them and grade them himself. Regarding Victor Osias, however, as part of the Sixth, remained a question; however, records show that he was also part of the Sixth Pursuit Squadron at the outbreak of the war.
Chapter title: Adverse Yaw. In aviation, adverse yaw happens when an airplane rolls to left or right, which could be considered as a by-product of such to cause the airplane to also yaw on the opposite direction due to the disturbance in the area; to be countered by applying rudder pressure to maintain a coordinated turn. For this chapter, we can all say that it is chaotic. I hope that the change of POVs had shown how it had been quite a chaotic moment for all of them. However, there's a relative agreement for all of them: César joined the battle with lesser fuel than all of them. I'd like to consider that their reactions and the aftermath of it all was the "adverse yaw" moment. There's something that could be done at the moment; however, no matter the trial to keep things "coordinated", fighting to keep it as such had proven to be otherwise for all of them with César's selfish and/or selfless decision to provide aid to them.
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