The News from Leyte

Throngs of Filipinos stood in the rain beside the liquid roads of Leyte last week to watch the jeeps slosh by, to cheer, and cheer again. The whole green, steaming land had turned to quaking ooze. But there was no dampening the Filipino spirit.

The mud, thin and yellow and bottom less, rose against the stilts of the nipa shacks. It flowed level in the roads after the passage of each floundering truck; then lay mockingly smooth again, like rainswept concrete. It cut off villages and made islands of houses. The patient carabao stood happily up to their bellies; chickens and pigs lived on the porches.

But the rain and the mud were warm and there was little hardship. There were no bread lines--the rice crop had been plentiful--and there were thousands of new civilian jobs behind the lines. Men who had toiled at forced labor under the Japanese now worked at handsome pay for Philippine pesos pegged at prewar value (50-c- in U.S. currency). Churches opened again, for worship and as hospitals for the wounded Americans. There was a new and thriving trade in throat-searing Philip pine "whiskey" at ten U.S. dollars a quart. And though most Filipino girls are devout and moral Catholics, the "crook girls" inevitably followed the troops, to ply their trade in slatternly shacks.

The Memories. In his bare little office in Tacloban, small, silent President Sergio Osmena toiled at the multiple tasks of the new Government. He moved with tolerance and caution. After Corregidor's surrender, thousands of Filipinos had accepted Japanese "Kalibapi cards" and joined Japanese "neighborhood associations," simply to go on living and eating. But the Filipinos wanted no head-shavings or witch hunts. By last week 140 suspected collaborators were imprisoned. But Sergio Osmena wanted only major offenders; 60 small fry suspects had already been paroled.

There were other reminders of Japanese rule. Young men were off fighting as guerrillas. There were very young children, now, whose eyes had a marked and curious slant. Stories of Jap cruelty were told and retold: of the nuns forced at bayonet point to undress and be photographed. And in many a town, signs like "Banzai Restaurant" were visible through the hastily-slapped-on coats of fresh paint.

The New Life. But the past, and even the new threat of bombing by Japanese planes, seemed unimportant to Filipinos living amidst the great, exciting fact of the U.S. Army. The Army was everything to all men--entertainment, a source of supply, a rich and uncritical market, and a vast library of information. Filipino jazz lovers, who were still singing Oh, Johnny and The Dipsy Doodle, pumped soldiers for new songs and lyrics. In Tanauan, an enterprising Filipino, knowing G.I. tastes, set up a hamburger stand. Another stand sold G.I. ten-in-one rations back to the troops.

Wherever the U.S. troops marched, civilians blossomed in new clothes. Occupation had reduced the Filipinos to burlap-like abaca clothes, or old garments patched beyond recognition. Now green twill fatigue caps, G.I. undershirts and shorts were standard. Some Filipino girls sallied forth in new, white sarongs, made from Government-issue towels, on some of them the legend: CAMP HOOD.

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