The local garrison had strict orders always to carry their sidearms. We saw a baseball game in which the umpire and all the players carried revolvers; there was very little sliding for bases in that game. At another place a group of soldiers were in swimming. No, they did not wear their weapons in the water but took turns in going overboard, those ashore guarding weapons and clothes. Even nurses wheeling baby carriages wore pistol holsters.
The very strict orders concerning arms were due not to fear of an attack by the Moros en masse but because certain religious fanatics know as Juramentados (from the Spanish “oath takers”) made a practice of surreptitiously entering the town, either by mingling with the crowd bringing in farm produce or by slipping through some undiscovered breach in the walls. Once inside they “ran amok” killing indiscriminately until they themselves were killed. Very few of them survived one running amok; as a matter of fact they didn’t want to survive. Their one object was to create as much damage as possible and then, having left a bloody trail behind them, to be killed; a spectacular way of committing suicide.
The more savage Moslems believed that it was a righteous act to kill an unbeliever and that a Son of the Prophet who died committing this laudable act was at once transported to paradise. I was also told that many believed the more Christians they killed the more houris they would have in heaven, but this may have been just a story.
The true believer who was a candidate for paradise went into the jungle with the native priests. Then various rites were held, one of which was the shaving of the Juramentado’s eyebrows. Frequently his arms and legs were bound with strips of cloth to act as tourniquets and keep life in him as long as possible after he was shot or bayoneted. His weapon was either a krise (a long knife with a wavy blade), or a barong — the heavy, razor sharp cleaver.
When the gates of the city were opened in the morning he would slip in with the crowd, his weapon either concealed in a basket or having previously been thrown over the wall. Selecting the most crowded street he would start his headlong rush which ended only with his death. One shout of “Juramentado!” and all the shops and houses barred their doors and all the inhabitants, except the armed military, fled in every direction, just as they would have fled from a mad dog.
I talked to the daughter of an Army officer who was in a Chinese shop when a Juramentado attacked. She told me:
“I heard a commotion in the street and looking out of the window, I saw an Army wagon, driven by a Negro trooper, stop just in front of the shop door. A stout commissary sergeant stepped down from the wagon and, as his foot touched the ground, a wild-looking native whipped out a krise and made a vicious slash at him. The sergeant turned and started running around the wagon with the Moro bounding after him. The Negro driver, who must have been a newcomer, thought it was some sort of a game and roared with laughter, shouting, “Run, Sergeant!” In passing, the Moro made a side swipe at the driver which ripped his flannel shirt from wrist to shoulder and sent him tumbling backward. He stopped laughing then.
“Soldiers and constabulary came running from every direction, some in their undershirts, some without hats, some with one arm thrust in a coat sleeve, but all with their rifles. A scattered volley was fired and I was grabbed by the two Chinese who ran the shop and dragged backward to the rear while another Chinaman closed and barred the door. I didn’t quite understand what was going on and thought that I was being kidnapped. I fought and screamed but after listening at the closed door for a few minutes, the shopkeepers opened it and politely bowed me out. There was the Juramentado lying dead in the street, the soldiers afraid to go near him as he still held his krise and they weren’t sure he was stone dead.”
At that time, the standard Army sidearm was the .38 caliber revolver, but a bullet from a .38 wouldn’t stop a Juramentado. You could empty the gun into him and he’d keep on coming and kill you before he died. So the .45 was introduced. I was told that a bullet from it would knock a man down even if it only hit his hand. Fully loaded, the gun weighed three pounds. A standard joke by drill instructors was to tell a recruit, “Fire seven rounds and if the man keeps on coming, throw the gun at him.”
It was well known that the Sultan of Jolo instigated many of the Juramentado attacks, but there was no way to prove it and he always denied it, claiming the fanatics went insane and he had no control over them. He lived in a palace some distance from the town, and finally Admiral Hemphill sent a gunboat to shell the palace. The furious sultan arrived the next day to protest this unwonted attack. The admiral listened to his tirade and then explained that he was very sorry but he had no control over the gunboat; it had gone Juramentado. The sultan got the idea and from then on the Juramentado attacks were greatly reduced.
What finally stopped the Juramentados was the custom of wrapping the dead man in a pig’s skin and stuffing his mouth with pork. As the pig was an unclean animal, this was considered unspeakable defilement.
An English Army officer I met had another suggestion. “After the Sepoy Mutiny, we finally hit on the perfect punishment for anyone who had committed atrocities on British women and children,” he told me. “We used to bind them to the muzzles of the field guns and then fire the guns. Moslems believe in the literal resurrection of the body. A man who has been hit by a 3-inch shell will look like it for all eternity.”
I suggested this must have been rather sloppy. The Englishman smiled condescendingly. “After you Yanks have had some more experience in handling native peoples, you’ll get over these scruples.”
Some distance outside the city was a mountain called Bud Dajo. Here, in 1906, the last really big fight in the Philippines took place. The Moros had entrenched themselves at the very top of this hill, and when the fighting was over, it was found that their women had joined with the men in opposing the Americans and a number of them had been killed.
A photograph, taken of the dead, was afterward published in the American papers. In the picture a dead woman, her breasts bare, occupied a prominent place. This picture created a great outcry as an example of American atrocities and the government had it suppressed.
Of course, in a jungle fight at the top of an almost inaccessible mountain it was impossible for our men to tell whom they were fighting, but they did know that their comrades were being killed.
In this fight was a detachment of sailors from the gunboat Pampanga commanded by their captain, Lt. Henry Cooke. Henry received a very peculiar wound; he was shot through the sole of one foot. The Moro who did it was at the bottom of a hole and shot upward as Henry stepped over the hole.
The day we visited Bud Dajo we rode to within a short distance of the foot of the mountain, and then dismounting, we went on by foot as there were no trails and we had to force our way through the jungle. Our guide was a lieutenant of artillery who had taken part in the battle.
Although there were no Moros about, we had troubles enough with other enemies. The man next to me had the entire back of his thick flannel shirt torn away by a bayonet thorn. A little later, as we paused to get our breath, I noticed something hanging from the chin of one of the men. I told him about it and he attempted to brush it off. It wouldn’t brush.
Going closer, I saw that it was an enormous tropical leech that was visibly swelling before our eyes. The bushes were full of them and we began to find them attached to our hands, the backs of our necks, every place where the flesh was exposed. It was impossible to pull them off; the body came away leaving the head embedded in the wound. The only way to get rid of them was to apply a lighted cigarette to their bodies. When that was done they would curl up and drop off.
It was not until we started the actual climb that we began to realize the really formidable feat that we had undertaken. How the soldiers, with their rifles and equipment, and the Pampanga’s men with machine guns had ever reached the top under enemy fire I cannot imagine. The sides of the mountain were almost perpendicular and were c
overed with dense jungle vegetation. The only way we ascended was by pulling ourselves up by the tree roots most of which were above ground. Our guide not only did this but he led the column and cleared a way for us with his bolo. I wish I could remember his name as it was an amazing exhibition of strength.
When we finally got to the top I was so utterly exhausted that, had any Moros appeared, I couldn’t have raised a finger. We remained there for an hour and examined the trenches and rifle pits which had been dug and positioned with considerable skill. That the Army had been able to overcome such adversaries under such conditions greatly increased my admiration for them. It had always seemed incredible to me that soldiers could drown in a few feet of nice, warm, calm sea water without knowing enough to drop their rifles or grab a nearby boat’s gunwales, and yet here were these same men able to perform feats utterly beyond me. Well, to each his own.
Going down was much easier. We simply sat on our sterns and slid. However, at least once we all slid in the wrong direction and were obliged to retrace our steps — or slides — for a hundred yards or so. I, for one, could hardly make it.
That evening in the Officers’ Mess we received an honor, unofficial but valued nevertheless. We were created members of the Ancient and Honorable Order of Jolo Goats, a most exclusive society. To be eligible you must climb Bud Dajo.
In the autumn of 1907, the Honorable William H. Taft then secretary of war, visited the islands to discuss with native leader plans for the ultimate independence of the Philippines. The formal opening of the Assembly took place at the Ayuntamiento Palace. There were about three hundred delegates who had come from the outermost parts of the archipelago, in which there are more than a thousand islands, to assist in the making of the laws which were to govern them.
I was very much impressed by the earnestness of the members. They took themselves and their task very seriously and listened with rapt attention to long discourses in both Spanish and English. Many of them wore the most original costumes, one very popular combination being a pair of perfectly transparent gauze trousers worn over a breech clout while the upper garment or shirt fluttered gaily in the breeze. Others wore no shoes, and, judging from their spatulated toes, had never worn them.
Despite these idiosyncrasies of dress, they showed much natural courtesy and good breeding, certainly more than the American wit who hung a placard near the entrance to the Palace reading: “Please check your bolos at the door.”
That same afternoon a reception was given the Assembly by the Chinese Merchants’ Association of Manila. There was an orchestra and the music was so superior that I took the first opportunity to get a view of the musicians. They were playing a very difficult Chopin waltz, the “Minute Waltz”. There were probably fifty Filipinos in the orchestra; the leader wore an old slouch hat rammed over his eyes and was smoking a cigarette while the first violins, their legs crossed, beat time with bare toes. The other musicians looked like a congress of scarecrows, nearly all barefooted and nearly all with the inevitable cigarette in the corner of their mouths. Not a sheet of music was visible yet they were playing a difficult classical selection with an accuracy and feeling that was truly remarkable.
The next day there was a big parade with everyone in fancy costume. The band took part dressed as monkeys. There was something unreal about seeing a monkey marching down the street playing a slide trombone. Again, none of them had any music; they were all playing by ear.
When Mr. Taft left, he was so popular with all classes of natives that he was accompanied as far as Corregidor by a swarm of nondescript craft bearing serenaders and other well-wishers. I believe that with a little luck, he could have reconciled all the warring factions.
The soldiers didn’t appreciate Mr. Taft’s sympathy for the people who were killing them, especially when Taft referred to the Filipinos as our “little brown brothers”. The troops made up a song part of which went like this:
I’m only a common soldier in the blasted Philippines.
They say I’ve got brown brothers here but I don’t know what that means.
I like the word fraternity as sure as I can be,
They may be a brother to William H. Taft,
But they’re no relation to me!
Apart from securing us bases, the Philippine affair had an even more important function. Never again, I am sure, will the United States allow herself to become embroiled in a war in the Orient against a primitive people using guerrilla tactics. No one who remembers the Philippine Campaign could make that mistake a second time.
Shortly after this, the Rainbow was dispatched on another goodwill tour to Japan, Vladivostok, and China. In Japan we saw the famous Yoshiwara (red-light district) and in Manchuria witnessed the beginnings of the Russian Revolution. I don’t know which was more interesting.
Chapter 9
Japan, China, and Vladivostok 1909
Another foreign devil has just dropped dead!
— Li Lien-ying, the Empress Dowager’s head eunuch,
gave this cry each time the Empress repeated a
magic formula guaranteed to kill invaders.
The following April we arrived in Yokohama, where we had the unusual experience of having our ship coaled by women. Each one carried a small canvas bag on her head, and they came up the gangway like a swarm of ants. Without pausing each emptied her bag in turn and, leaving the ship by the forward gangway, got another load. They finished coaling us in far shorter time than it had ever been done before.
In spite of the heavy labor they performed, these coolie women were far from “tough”. They were modesty and good breeding personified. I saw one of the Japanese men on the coal barge make some indecent gestures toward one of them; she seemed to be as embarrassed and annoyed as any other respectable young girl would have been and got away from him as quickly as possible.
The men coolies were a hardy lot. It is queer that it was not until World War II that America made the astonishing discovery that the Japanese are rough, ruthless, and efficient. Most Americans seem to regard them as funny little people out of Gilbert and Sullivan’s The Mikado. They should have seen those ricksha coolies trotting through the sleet and frozen slush of the streets with straw sandals on their bare feet clad in a costume very like a swimming suit. I have often seen those same coolies sleeping in open rickshas on nights when I was chilled to the bone. I can also remember Yokohama Harbor where barges carrying railroad cars were propelled not by tugs but by a few men sculling with incredibly long oars.
Many of these coolies enjoyed embarrassing white people, especially white women. While in Yokohama, I met a fellow countrywoman who looked like the personification of the New England School Marm: thin, very tall, and wearing glasses with a broad ribbon attached. We were doing some sightseeing and we both took rickshas; mine followed just behind hers. They always travel in single file.
Suddenly her ricksha coolie stopped and mine, perforce, stopped also. The lady’s coolie indicated the house that we were passing and said in English, “That is a whorehouse.”
The lady replied absently, “Did you say Porterhouse?” Then she looked around and noticed for the first time the leer on the coolie’s face. She leisurely adjusted her glasses, looked the building over carefully, calmly remarked, “Looks more like the Tenderloin to me,” and imperiously motioned the human horse to continue. It was a very neat remark and I’m only sorry that the coolie didn’t get the reference.
A few days later, the admiral and his staff (which included me) went on to Tokyo to make a round of official calls. I think we called on every naval and military chief of Japan. One of them was the famous Admiral Count Heihachiro Togo. It was Admiral Togo who had destroyed the Russian Fleet a few years before at Tsushima. He looked very amiable but said only one word during our visit. When we rose to go, he said, “Pleased.”
While in Tokyo, as the admiral’s flag lieu
tenant, I received the following letter:
“By order of His Majesty the Emperor, Count Mitsuaki Tanaka, Minister of the Imperial Household, requests the honor of the company of His Excellency Rear Admiral Hemphill, his Personal Staff and his Commanding Officers at luncheon at the Shiba Detached Palace on the 18th instant at 12:30 P.M. His Imperial Highness Prince Yosibito will honor the occasion with his presence.
“No answer is necessary.
“The officers of the Squadron will accompany the Ambassador to the Palace after the audience. The Commander of the Third Squadron, his Personal Staff and the Commanding Officers are the only officers who will attend the audience.”
In case you didn’t know, the words “No answer is necessary” meant that this kind of invitation is a command and cannot be declined. The notification of our presentation had the Royal Chrysanthemum engraved at the top.
We met at the embassy at the designated hour, everybody in Special Full Dress, a uniform that has since been abolished owing, I understand, to its expense. It seems rather a pity as, in that uniform, we were never ashamed to be in any company. The coat buttoned up to the neck with a high gold laced collar that had something of the eighteenth century about it. There were gold epaulettes, cocked hats, swords, a broad gold stripe down the trouser leg and the inside of the coattails were lined with white satin. Being aides, Walter Anderson and I also wore gold aiguillettes.
At the embassy we were instructed in what we were to do at the presentation. Our name being called we were to enter the Audience Chamber, pause, make a deep bow, advance half-way to the Mikado, pause again and make a second deep bow, then advance until directly in front of him where we were to pause for the third time and make a third deep bow. The Emperor would, presumably, offer his hand which we would take and then would back out (being careful not to trip over our swords), and make our exit by a second door. The same procedure was to be carried out when we later were presented to the Empress.
The Old Navy Page 20
