Mundo, my Good Soldier - A Recollection

May 18, 1945 was V - E Day in Europe, but it was just another day on the battlefield for us.

General Yamashita, the “Butcher of Nanking” was still at large in the hills of Northern Luzon. Although we knew the war was coming to and end, the enemy didn’t have much more room to retreat to. We also knew we faced more months of brutal combat.

My first encounter with him was less than formal. On my way to breakfast I cameupon a garbage can. Over the edge was a little, bare brown backside with two skinny bare legs. The upper body was deep in the bowels of the odiferous mess. As a hard-nosedrifle company commander this offended my sense of “good order and discipline”, I grabbed his sand-bag tunic (his only item of clothing) and pulled him out of the garbage can.

During the long months of the war from the jungles of New Guinea, The Dutch East Indies, and finally, the Philippines, we had little contact with civilians. In New Guinea we used stone-age tribesmen as cargo bearers, but elsewhere we caught only fleeting glimpses of natives scrambling away from the onslaught of modern war. He, all forty pounds of him, lit lightly on his feet and, with a sharp salute, said.”Good Morning Cafitan.” I was looking at the most sparkling, black shiny eyes and the whitest, widest smile I had ever seen.

“What in blazes are you doing in that garbage can? Don’t you know this camp is off limits to civilians?”

“Cafitan, I am hungry. I look for food. “’Mericans throw away very good food.“

“Why are you here? Where are your parents? Don’t you have any family?”

“Sir, my parents are dead. Japs killed them. I have some relatives in Dagupan, But they have no home and, and also very hungry.”

I was annoyed by this intrusion of the realities of the horror and damage war can wreak on non-combatant civilians. However my heart was not brimming with human kindness. I just wanted to get rid of this little brown nuisance.

“What is your name?”

“Sir, My name is “Mundo”

At the time, I was young and unsophisticated, but I knew that, in Spanish “Mundo” meant “World.” I thought it a bit strange but didn’t dwell on it. I took him to the supply tent, asked the Supply Sergeant for a bar of soap and told him to find the smallest fatigue jacket available. I took Mundo to the water trailer.

“Take off your shirt.”

With a big smile, he ducked out of the filthy sandbag and stood there, naked as a worm. I handed him the soap and said, “Clean up.” He looked confused, so I grabbed a big bucket, ran some water into it, pointed to him, then the drum. Splash! Like any normal kid, he jumped up and down in the bucket, spraying water everywhere. I gave him the soap and motioned for him to wash himself. He wasn’t too sure of the concept but soon the suds were flying. I poured a bucket of clear water over his head and marched him, naked as a jaybird back to the supply tent.

The Supply Sergeant found a fatigue jacket that came down to his knees. The combat boots were size five, about two sizes too big. This done, I told the Supply Sergeant to take Mundo to the Mess Tent, to give him breakfast and to have the Mess Sergeant give him a sack lunch he could take with him. I thought my brief association with Mundo was finished. How little I knew.

Private Purifoy, the slow-witted soldier who doubled as an officers’ orderly when he wasn’t carrying ammunition in combat, was serving breakfast. He brought pancakes, bacon, and canned fruit juice, and when he returned with the coffee, right behind him was Mundo with a tray of syrup, sugar and evaporated milk, with those sparkling eyes and wide, radiant smile. I was not amused.

My job was to fight a war. We had the Red Cross and Civil Affairs units to take care of refugees and other non-combatant casualties of war. I had neither the inclinationion nor the facilities to house and feed a war orphan. With Mundo, I was direct and to the point.

“You cannot stay here. This is an army camp. Civilians are not allowed. You want to help, but I have a soldier to do that. You cannot stay here. So, you understand?”

Another big smile. “Cafitan, I clean your tent, wash your clothes. I do many things, I clean your guns, I like to be here. Merican soldiers laugh and tell jokes. I be no trouble. O.K.?”

“O.K.? No, it is not O.K. I don’t care how much you can do or how much you like Americans. You cannot stay here! Understand?”

Mundo just stood there, head down. With a mournful look, he said, “I know, Cafitan no like Mundo.” Jeez! What have I got myself into, I told Purifoy to take Mundo to the Mess Tent and to keep him there until I returned. I headed to Regimental Headquarters to ask the Regimental Adjutant what I should do.

“Do? Who do you think you are, Father Flanagan of Boys Town? Kick the little gook out on his butt and tell him, “Don’t come back!”

That it may have been the logical course did not mean it was the best. The little bugger had already gotten under my skin. I visited the Regimental Chaplain and that tower of quivering jelly nattered on about an orphanage or turning him over to the local priest. Hell! The local priest, a Belgian missionary, wasn’t any better off than Mundo. I returned to the Mess Tent. No Mundo. I asked Purifoy where he was. He just spread his hands. “He was here, I turned my back and he was gone.” I thought, ‘Some problems just solve themselves. Mundo has probably just moved to another company’. I went to my tent to get some equipment. In front of all six bunks were our extra combat boots, shined to a mirror finish. Our clothes had been re-hung so they were in an orderly manner, the tent floor had been swept and washed and a bouquet of field flowers was on the field table.

I knew he had to be nearby. I went looking in the company area and found him, with a group of soldiers demonstrating “hacky-sack” or “foot-bag.” The soldiers were in a circle and Mundo, barefooted, was demonstrating his skill. One of the soldiers said, “Hell. I can do that!” Mundo handed him the woven ball and the kid kicked it clear over everyone’s head. When they saw me they all came to attention, but I grabbed Mundo as he whizzed by.

“That’s enough for you young man. Get your boots and come with me.” At the Orderly tent, I told the First Sergeant, “Find Herman. Hermanihildo Pagulayan was a company cook, and the only Filipino in the Regiment. He was also a native of PangasinanProvince, Mundo’s home territory. When he arrived I told him, “Herman, find out where Mundo’s relatives live. Fill the jeep with food and blankets; don’t let him out of your sight until he is with his family. Understand?”

“Sir, I will watch over him very carefully and deliver him to his family.”

“How do you know where he lives?”

Herman replied, “Oh everyone knows about Mundo. He has been scrounging in every garbage can in the regiment. He has an uncle and aunt in Dagupan. It isn’t hard to find people in the barrios.” Herman had Mundo by the hand and was walking away when Mundo stopped, planted both feet, looked up at me and said. “Cafitan, you no like Mundo?”

After years of bloody fighting, sending and leading men into combat, desensitized by all the carnage and blood, this simple reproach hit me right in the gut. “Mundo, I like you very much. I think you are a very remarkable boy. But we are fighting a war. There is no place in a rifle company for an eight year old boy. You must return to your relatives.”

“I am not eight. I am half-past eight, almost nine. I help you very much. Not get in way.”

Again, I said, “I am sorry Mundo you cannot stay here” I walked away feeling lower than a snake’s belly. The day went on. I went about my normal routine and the memory of Mundo gradually faded into the background. By 2300 I was bushed. When “Taps” sounded I left my desk and went to my tent. As I walked up the path, out of the gloom came the image of my little brown nemesis. “Mundo! What are you doing here? Didn’t Private Purifoy take you to Dagupan?”

“Oh yes, Cafitan, I have nice ride in jeep. My aunt and uncle thank you very mush for food and blankets. I jump in back of truck to come back here.”

“For God’s sake, why?”

“No food in Dagupan. The food in the jeep taken by whole village. Everybody sad. Here much food, ‘Merican soldiers laugh, tell jokes, be nice to Mundo. I stay here.”

2330 is no time to discuss the care and feeding of war orphans. I gave him a blanket and told him to sleep on the floor. When I got up, Mundo was gone. The blanket was folded at the foot of my cot. I washed, shaved and went to breakfast. Of course, there was Mundo, standing beside the Mess Tent. “Good morning, Cafitan!”

My reply was less than genial. The other officers thought it was a kick. But they didn’t have to deal with it. I drove to Division Headquarters to visit with (LTC) Fr. Patrick Daley, the Division Chaplain. In general, I had little respect for military chaplains but Fr. Daley was the real thing, a tough priest from Chicago, used to dealing with hunger and poverty. I hoped he could help me. After I explained my predicament, he said, “Son, you may be making more out of this than is necessary. How long do you think you have until the invasion?”

“Two, three weeks, tops.”

“Then relax. You can find some relief agency and dump him off and feel guilty about it, but it looks to me as if he has found a home with Capt. Lindsay. It might be a good thingfor you to get that ramrod out of your butt and enjoy the little tyke. This youngster has spent over half of his life under brutal occupation. His parents have been murdered, and he has just endured a devastating invasion. You are the only person in a long time to recognize that he is a human being and not some flotsam or jetsam. A little act of human kindness will not hurt you. When you return to combat, the problem will solve itself.”

More or less relieved, I returned to my company. Many times soldiers are smarter than their officers. I had been gone but a short time, but while I was away, two sergeants took Mundo to the barrio. They brought some Class “X” clothing, unusable items and hired a “madre” to make him a uniform. When I returned, Mundo was in full uniform, overseas cap and all. Someone had even found him a new pair of shoes. When I got out of the Jeep, Mundo, squared away in his new uniform saluted and said, “My Cafitan, how you like Mundo now?”

I liked Mundo just fine. After Father Daley’s talk, I decided to enjoy this little “Pinoy” ball of fire. In a military camp he would not be allowed to just hang around, so Mundo became Pvt. Purifoy’s assistant. Even at his young age, he had more on the ball than Purifoy would ever have. The officers’ tent and the area off the officers’ mess were squared away and Mundo was looking for more work. After he had been in camp for a couple of days, Mundo said to me after lunch, “Cafitan, Sir. Do ‘Merican soldiers like to eat in small, hot tent?”

“No, Mundo, they don’t. But in this season the rains are coming so often, they have to eat under some kind of cover.”

“Mundo fix!” and off he ran. He returned a half-hour later with a dark-skinned, bandy-legged little man. Mundo Said, “Cafitan! This Emilio, he good builder.” I had no idea what he was talking about, but Emilio bowed (4 years of Japanese occupation will do that) and motioned to the mess tent. He made motions with his hands to indicate some kind of house. Of course he spoke no English. Mundo broke in, “Cafitan, Emilio build bamboo mess hall!”

“That’s fine, Mundo, but tell Emilio that we have no money and no materials to build a mess hall.”

After a quick exchange, Mundo said, “Emilio and his men no want pay. Maybe little food. Mericans very good to Filipinos, no starve, no torture, no rape women. Very happy to make bamboo house for Merican soldier to eat in.” I was really touched by this expression of gratitude for just doing our duty.

Mundo said, “Cafitan, Emilio ask Cafitan to make plan to build house, I explained I had taken a few drafting lessons in school but I had no material or instruments to make a proper plan. Emilio and Mundo put their heads together and then broke out laughing. “No! No! Cafitan, no plan on paper - just show Emilio on ground where Mess Hall will go.” I sent Mundo to the Supply Tent. He returned with an armload of tent stakes and a sledge hammer. At the Mess area, I drove a stake about two feet from each corner of the Mess tent. That was the “Plan”. To Mundo, “When can he start? From Emilio, “Tomorrow morning, sir, early.”

The following morning while at breakfast, I heard men shouting. From a nearby wooded area came a large group of men carrying bamboo poles and palm branches. And in the lead was Mundo. They went right to the Mess tent. The company was eating breakfast in the tent. I stood in amazement as they proceeded to erect a building right over the occupied tent. By the time “First Call For Drill” sounded (0800) they had the entire frame of a twenty by forty foot building lashed together. This was a sight to behold, forty-five or fifty Filipino men, scrambling around like acrobats, palm fronds flying, with Emilio giving instructions very quietly. By noon the building was complete, and by supper time they had scrounged enough tables and chairs from the bombed-out buildings to complete the job. As they were preparing to leave, the Mess Sergeant invited them to supper. Hermanajildo had prepared Bacalhau - a traditional Filipino meal made from codfish, potatoes, onions and herbs. Some of the workmen actually had tears in their eyes as they ate the food. One said I have not eaten this dish since before the war. We made a lot of friends that day.

All good things must come to an end. After about ten days of enjoying our new facilities. I received a message from Regiment that we would have to back to Camp 4 to reinforce the battalion that relieved us. The battalion commander said he could not hold out against the opposition. We had to say good-bye to Mundo. We filled the jeep with food and supplies and sent him off. This was the hard part. Mundo, who - despite the tragedies he had endured - had always been so buoyant, so upbeat and such a delightful presence, was now just a sad, mournful little boy. “Please, Cafitan.” he said, “I help you much. I carry your rifle, dig your foxhole, get your food, anything you want, Please, please Cafitan, Mundo go with you.” I was tempted but we were going back into battle. Mundo did not cry, but when I told him to get into the jeep, he put both arms around my legs and hugged me - hard. I had a lump in my throat. Then he stepped back, saluted and climbed into the jeep.

We went into the mountains that afternoon. We picked up extra rations and ammunition and moved up the trail. Along the side of the trail were the bloated, blackened bodies of the enemy we had killed two weeks ago, just before we were relieved. What kind of outfit were we assisting that wouldn’t even bury enemy dead? The following morning, we attacked and took the enemy position and relieved the “surrounded” battalion. I called Col. Cavenee, told him we had completed our mission, and asked when we could leave. He said, “We are pulling that battalion out for reorganization. They have some real leadership problems. You will have to hold the position for a few days.” My company, which already had more days in combat than any other, was not too thrilled at the news, but they were well disciplined. We reorganized near the top of the hill and dug in. The platoon that had taken the hill had done such a good job that we were subjected to only sporadic long-range machine-gun fire during the day.

Late that afternoon the Mess Truck arrived. They hand-carried the marmite cansin. It was inconvenient and relatively dangerous, but I believed in serving troops a hotmeal whenever possible. The kitchen crew was always subject to the jibes of being “rear-echelon” commandos. As the mess truck went down the hill, I spotted some movement behind a small hummock. Thinking that an enemy soldier had infiltrated our position, I raised my tommy gun. Mundo jumped up, and with a big grin said. “Cafitan! I am back!”

Dumbfounded, I said, “How in blazes did you get up here?”

“I hitch-hike, get ride on Red Ball express, then I get under Mess truck when it stopped at bottom of hill. I hide in space where spare tire goes. Nobody see Mundo.”

This little bugger really ticked me off. We are now in combat. We are under fire. And I have to deal with this. I couldn’t spare anyone to take him the thirty miles down to base camp. “Do you want to get yourself killed?”

“I want to be with Cafitan, I be good soldier.”

Everything was quiet for about two hours, and then all hell broke loose. Mortar and grenade rounds were exploding all over the perimeter. The “crack” as 9-millimeter machine-gun bullets whizzed by was unnerving, I said, “Mundo, you O.K.?”

Shaky voice. “I be good soldier, Cafitan”. Just then, a mortar round exploded on the strip of ground between our foxholes, It was super-contact fused so the shell fragments sprayed all over but missed our foxholes. Before the flying dirt and shrill fragments had stopped falling, I was hit in the chest by the flying body of my little “GoodSoldier” He grabbed me around the neck, his skinny little body shaking like a leaf.

“Cafitan, Mundo afraid!”

In spite of the combat situation, I had to chuckle. Afraid he might be, but stupid he was not. “Mundo, you are supposed to be afraid when you are in danger, and we are both in great danger now. I am also afraid.”

“Mundo ashamed. I want to be brave, but I act like scared chicken, I am sorry I act like coward, I am very ashamed,” I could feel his little heart beating like a trip-hammer as he clutched me. I thought, ‘how did I ever allow this magnificent kid to get into this situation?’ I pushed him away gently.

“Mundo, when there is danger, you should be afraid... Now, lie down next to me and KEEP YOUR HEAD DOWN!”

The Japanese were very brave, but they were not often stupid. They would not attack through their own artillery fire (as we sometimes did). We were relatively safe as long as the heavy weapons continued to fire. When it stopped we got repeated waves of “Banzai” attacks. Mortar fire detonated a small number of our anti-personnel mines so the first wave of attacks usually suffered heavy casualties. The subsequent attacks took heavy casualties. Even then, some of the fanatics would break through. The subsequent attacks, and they lasted all night, would bring these fanatics in force, usually in hand-to-hand combat. Our first method of defense was to pull the pin on a hand grenade, let the hammer go, hold it for two seconds and throw it. The grenades had four second fuses so they couldn’t throw them back.

The intensity of the battle captured my total concentration. It wasn’t until there was a short lull, when I was talking on a field phone to one of my platoon leaders that I realized that, throughout the fight, Mundo had been loosening the pins on the grenades and reloading the magazines for my tommy gun. In the dim light of the moon, I looked atMundo and he said, “Mundo good soldier now, O.K?”

Dawn came; we buried the enemy dead, evacuated our own dead and wounded reorganized and redistributed ammunition. As we repaired our own communication lines, Mundo made himself useful as a general messenger. It was amazing how quickly a situation that at first had seemed impossible quickly became routine. For the next four nights, with decreasing intensity, we experienced the same “Banzai” attacks. On the morning of the fifth day, I sent one platoon, covered by the other two and the weapons platoon into the enemy position and wiped them out in about thirty minutes. We marched into Camp Jay, the old Army post near Bagio, the summer capital. The old barracks had been bombed into rubble. Mundo pointed out that the dependents quarters had barely been touched. We chain-sawed twenty 14’x14’ squares of hardwood flooring for our tents. We found an old silver mine with a huge pile of crushed quartz. We paved the company street with that.

The war was not over, but the end was near. Yamashita had been captured and we were now “mopping up” small pockets of resistance. Our presence in the Philippines was coming to an end. Our battalion was moved down to the beach to prepare for the invasion of Japan. Mundo’s situation bothered me. I had come to love the little imp. He had proven himself to be a real man in very perilous situations. Whenever I brought up the subject of going back to his remaining family, he would say, “They don’t want me. They have their own children. They have no food for themselves. I stay with Cafitan.”

I wrote to my wife about the possibility of adopting Mundo. He and I had been through things together that few fathers ever have to share with their sons. She seemed relatively receptive but she had a cautionary note. She suggested that I contact my old friend, Father Daley, if for no other reason than to find out the legal aspects of adoption. I went to Baguio and found that Fr. Daley had found some space in the cathedral, which had not been bombed. I explained my plan. Fr. Daley was quiet for a moment, then he said, “What do you plan to do after the war?”

“Get out of the Army and go to college.”

“Where?”

“Boston University.”

With a wry smile, he said, “You could at least have selected a good Jesuit school like Boston College. Will you be living in Boston?”

“Probably, if we can find something we can afford on the G.I. Bill.”

“Son, do you know if there is a Filipino community in the Boston area? Is there any place where he can share his Filipino heritage?”

This thought had never crossed my mind. He continued, “Do you remember how cruel children can be? Do you remember when you were young how kids who wore glasses or were a little overweight were taunted and abused? Can you imagine how third and fourth-grade kids will attack a little brown skinned “foreigner” who talks funny and knows absolutely nothing about the white man’s culture in a big city environment? With the exception of a few transient merchant seamen, how many people speak Tagalog in the greater Boston Area? Do you speak Tagalog?”

I tried to explain how resilient Mundo was, how he had survived the horrors of war, had even taken part in combat operations, how his enthusiasm helped him to rise to every dangerous situation.

Father Daley said, “Mundo will not be living in a combat situation. If he goes with you, he will be in a foreign land, in a foreign culture. He will be subject to bigotry and terrible discrimination that even adults have difficulty handling. You can be called a “Gook” so many times before losing it. You should think over very seriously.”

On my way back to camp, that is exactly what I did, thought about my wife who was suffering from a tropical disease she had picked up, probably in Georgia. And I had a bad case of Malaria and was becoming progressively weaker. All the objections raised by Father Daley seemed more relevant. I could take some solace in the fact that I had not discussed the subject of adoption with anyone else, so it would not be so difficult to adjust to my own thinking. None the less, the final decision was heart rending. I really did love the little guy.

When I returned to camp, there was a message for me to report to RegimentalHeadquarters. When I arrived I was told, with some other officers, to go to Manila to be briefed on the upcoming invasion. When we arrived at Santo Tomas College in Manila, we were directed to the briefing room. On the wall were several maps of Japan, including one large map of southern Honshu. The briefing officer, a Major, informed us that we would be participating in the initial assault on the home islands. When he finished a Colonel stood up and asked, “Do you have any casualty estimates?” The young desk officer said, as if he was counting socks, “Generally we believe the Japanese casualties will exceed ninety percent, based on their previous conduct. If we are successful, our casualties should be relatively light, except for the first two waves, which will probably approach seventy per cent.” This was my “good news.” My company was in the first two waves.

When I returned to camp, amphibious training was ongoing. As lucky as I had been up until now, the idea of making a beach landing on a shore against a fanatic enemy defending their homeland, and the prospect of our battle losses, did nothing for my morale. Training continued. The only bright spot in my life was Mundo.

After a couple of weeks of this we had a short break. I visited a buddy’s AA Battalion just to get away. At the bar, the radio announcer said an ‘Atomic’ bomb had been dropped over Hiroshima, Japan. As I drove back to camp the jubilation emanated from service units along the road, men firing their rifles in the air and whooping it up.When I arrived at my camp, things were very quiet. It dawned on me that combat soldiers, those who had fought the war, sometimes hand to hand, weren’t likely to be firing their weapon in the air, just to make noise. When I entered my Orderly Tent, the Executive Officer and the First Sergeant were there. And Mundo. We all agreed that itwas a good day, and hit the sack.

The next day amphibious training continued per schedule, but there was a buoyancy in the air that was contagious. Two days later, on August 9th, a second Atom bomb was dropped over Nagasaki. It is hard to describe the feeling of deliverance, like being pardoned from a death sentence. It was a deep, quiet sense of relief. No more killing, no more letters of condolence to mothers and widows, no more closing one’s heart to other people’s misery to protect one’s own sanity.

When the surrender took place on the 18th I was detailed to be part of the Advance Party to Japan to prepare for the occupation. I was rather pleased to be selected, the only officer from the regiment, but I realized my relationship with Mundo, the remarkable Pinoy who had so affected my life and whom I had come to love like a son, was about to come an end. I cautioned the First Sergeant to take care of him until the Regiment left, then to find a home for him. Ten days later the Advance Party embarked in an LST for the voyage to Japan.

There was no fanfare, just a few technicians assisting in the embarkation. Mundo stood in front of me, his eyes very solemn. He said, ‘Cafitan, you no come back to Philippines, that is so?” I couldn’t answer. I just nodded my assent, dumbly. “No sweat. Cafitan, Mundo be good soldier anyway.” I reached down to hug him and he jumped up into my arms, with his little legs wrapped around me. Into my chest he murmured, “I miss you very much Cafitan.” I choked up, murmured I will miss you very much too, Mundo.” And set him on his feet.

After I went aboard, I climbed up to the main deck, and went forward to the prow.As the LST edged itself off the beach, there stood my “Good Soldier” Mundo, at attention, tears running down his face, saluting. That was the last time I ever saw him.When the troops arrived in Japan, two weeks later, the First Sergeant informed me that I probably should not worry about Mundo. Two days after I left, Father Daley visited and picked up Mundo. He was only nine years old but war had made him a man. Father Daley had appointed him as an assistant to conduct liaison with displaced persons and orphans, particularly when U.S. relief agencies were involved. I missed the wonderful personality, but at least I did not have to worry about his well-being.

My tour of duty over, I left Japan, got discharged, and went to Boston University.I often thought about Mundo whenever I reflected on my days in the Philippines, but in the press of daily life my memory slowly faded and did not return except on those days when we celebrated the end of the war and such. When Korea erupted, I had just graduated and was called back to active duty. This time to stay.
In 1963, eighteen years since I had left the Philippines, Joe Sullivan, ne of my friends from the Strategic Air Command visited my office. He had heard me talk about Mundo a time or to and he handed me a Filipino English language newspaper and said, “You might get a kick out of this.” On the front page was a photo of a young man with bright, shining eyes and a big smile. The caption read, “Enrico “Mundo” Benguez elected youngest Congressman of the Republic of the Philippines.” It was Mundo, my “good soldier.”