This is the conclusion to Thomas Lincoln's exclusive report to the Observer.
The Filipinos haven’t had time to collect their fallen comrades. Several bodies lie in the sand, two are in the water, bumping into the shore and then sliding back in concert with the waves. I watch this with sick fascination until voice interrupts my reverie. “Hey! Who the hell are you?”
It’s a marine lieutenant, striding towards me, rifle in hand. Funny me, I just assumed that officers would carry pistols in to action. “I’m a newspaperman”, I reply. “I’m writing about your landing.”
“You got some authorization?”, the lieutenant demands.
“I wasn’t given anything”, I tell him.
“You got authorization but weren’t given anything?”, the officer repeats. He curses. “We still got some hostiles lurking about. They see you, they’ll think you’re British and shoot you where you stand. If you’re lucky.”
“I’ll be careful”, I say.
The lieutenant rolls his eyeballs. “You armed? No, you’re a newspaperman, you’re not armed. Come with me.” He marches across the sand to one of the corpses, bends over, and removes a pistol from the body’s right hand. He checks the chamber, pops out the magazine, shoves it back in, and thumbs the safety.
“This is Pedro’s”, he says to me. “SALSA got him before he could use it. You see one of them, shoot ‘em for Pedro.”
I take the gun and reply. “h, yeah. Thanks.”
“Don’t thank me. Best thing I could do for you is tie you up and throw you back in the damned boat.” There’s no good answer to that, so I warily head across the sand to the trees.
I’m not sure what I expected to find in the jungle - perhaps eerie quiet and a sense of isolation. What I do find is a pungent aroma of rotting vegetation and that distinct smell that comes with freshly cut wood. And there’s no quiet - insects are swarming me within seconds, and I can hear the distant gunfire. A drone overhead causes me to look up and see one of Palk Bay’s scouts heading inland.
I’m not really sure what I’m looking for. I don’t have a camera, so it’s not a definitive photograph. I don’t really want to interview SALSA. I don’t really want to experience what the marines have been experiencing all day. I don’t have a death wish.
The primitive part of my brain is telling me, “Go back to the beach and wait for the launch”, but it’s being overpowered by “The story is better if you see the carnage directly.” Come to think of it, that’s probably true. What I saw on Dara Shikoh could have been a target shoot for all the human drama it held. I need to see the true cost of this action for myself so I can relay this on to you, the reader.
Distracted by this line of thinking, I stumble into a small crater, surrounded by shattered and scorched trees. Bits of twisted metal and blackened fabric lie around the rim of the hole, and something’s hanging from a tree. I can’t figure out what it is without getting closer. I realize after several seconds that it’s a human torso, with one arm still attached.
When I stop retching, I continue inland.
......
The devastation is erratic. Patches of the jungle are intact and seem untouched. Others are blasted, smouldering craters or bullet-pocked killing zones.
I see more SALSA casualties as I go, both dead and wounded. The latter are all seriously hurt - I assume that any walking wounded have fled or died trying. A few of the injured cry or call out to me, and part of me yearns to help them, to relieve whatever pain they’re in.
The marine lieutenant’s words replay themselves in my brain, and I keep walking, telling myself that the marines will collect and treat the wounded when the area is secured. I feel less guilty each time this happens.
I start to wonder just how big the SALSA force actually was. I’ve counted eighteen bodies and about a dozen injured in this little area. I had thought there might be a hundred or so - perhaps it was much higher?
A rifle shot nearby startles me. I freeze for a moment, then have the sense to dive for the muddy ground. I fumble with the pistol’s safety, release it, and wait.
Nothing happens. So, was it a rifle shot after all? Or perhaps a tree branch breaking? Or my imagination? That might be preferable, I suppose.
I lie in the mud, listening and watching for signs of human activity as the bugs bite at me and fly into my nose, eyes, and ears. After the longest five minutes of my life, I begin crawling, and continue to do so until I think I’m a couple hundred metres away from where I heard the shot.
A loud boom from offshore signals the return of Dara Shikoh’s main battery to the action. Several single shots are followed by three salvoes or half-salvoes, evidence that there are still important targets out there somewhere. I don’t think I hear the shells land. It’s hard to tell with the distant gunfire and explosions I’ve been hearing off and on since I came ashore.
I pick up a path and consider the wisdom of following it. Certainly it’ll be quicker, but for that very reason it’s also more dangerous - there’s a good chance somebody in a hurry will be on it. Unless they’re smart enough to stay off the trail for that reason. Bah! I can stand here debating a with myself and nothing will be proven.
I follow the path.
It meanders east, intersecting a few other paths as it goes. I move as carefully as I know how, watching for anything that looks like a trap. I try to ignore the fact that I have no idea what kinds of traps SALSA might use.
There’s a ridge before me, visible between the treetops. Even from here I can see areas of destruction. Perhaps it’s the SALSA camp at Ridge 116? No - I’m pretty sure that was further away than this. I’m confident I remember another ridge in front of it on the map, and apart from a little hill a couple hundred metres back, it’s been flat so far.
The path broadens a bit as it starts to cut up along the sloping ground. I don’t noticed the destruction much, apart from a crater that happens to intersect the path, because I’m looking down at my feet. My breath gets heavier and I find myself tiring. But the top of the ridge doesn’t seem to be far away. I grit my teeth and push on.
The ground levels out and I stop, hands on my knees, taking it great gulps of air. When I look up, I almost fall over. I am on Ridge 116 - and I know this because the top of the ridge has been pulverized by naval artillery. Hardly a tree remains standing, and the ground is rife with craters large and small. “My God”, I exclaim quietly.
I walk southward, threading my way between craters. Bits of recognizable debris - canvas, metal, human - dot the ground. Where something looks large enough to be a body, I avert my gaze until I pass it.
This proves to be a poor and nearly fatal decision.
I’m avoiding looking at two bodies on the edge of a crater on my left, instead examining an abandoned bicycle, when suddenly I hear a noise in the direction of the crater. My head whips round, to see a shabbily dressed man about twenty feet away, charging at me. I spin round to face him and start back-stepping as I level the borrowed handgun at him. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!”, I exclaim in English. He skids to a stop ten feet from me, hands raised to shoulder height, eying me with obvious hate.
“Don’t move”, I say in Iberian with as much authority as I can muster.
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps watching me, or to be more specific, the gun in my hands. Now what do I do?
First things first - where’d he come from? A glance at the crater and I see just one body. This fellow was playing possum. “Running at me could have gotten you shot”, I tell my erstwhile prisoner. When he doesn’t respond, I add, “Okay, who are you? SALSA?”
“Yes, I am fighting for the liberation of Sulu”, he says bitterly. “Fighting to free them from likes of you!”
“Me? No, I’m a newspaperman from America”, I reply. “I just want to tell people about what’s happening here.”
“What’s happening here? A war is what’s happening here. Patriots against a tyrannical, corrupt government”, the man says, spitting on the ground. “Is that what you’re telling your people? Or are you relaying the lies of the government?”
“I’m trying to tell them the truth”, I say.
“Whose truth?”, the man demands. “The government’s? I suppose you came in with their troops, reported on their so-called heroism, deplored our supposed crimes?”
“I came in on the Indian battleship”, I confirm.
“Indian? Pah!”, he exclaims derisively, spitting again. “That’s what I think of them, with their self-righteous talk of liberating Asia and their subtle attempts to subjugate it instead!”
“Subjugate?”, I repeat. “No, I think you’re wrong about that.”
“Then you’re a naive fool”, he says.
I’m not sure what to say to that.
“So are you going to let me go or shoot me?”, he demands.
I’m not sure about that either. Damn! What am I supposed to do with this guy? I certainly can’t just kill him.
“I’m a newspaperman”, I eventually tell him. “I watch the story and report on it - not take part in it. Let’s just part ways peacefully.”
“You are serious?”, he asks, skeptically.
“I’m serious. Go on”, I say, waving the gun off at the west.
“I will”, he says, and he turns and begins to walk away. Feeling faint relief, I put the gun down and resume my own walking.
He’s quieter this time and I don’t hear him coming until far too late. He tackles me as I’m turning and I land on right side, jarring my arm. The gun slips out of my hand and bounces out of reach.
I try to roll over and get the gun, but he grasps my left shoulder with his left hand and drives his other fist into my jaw. My teeth scrape together from the blow as he uses his leverage to flatten me on my back, then pins my left arm with his knees.
I take a wild swing with my free arm and hit him just above the ear. I try it again and he grasps my wrist with his left hand. We struggle for a moment, his elevation working to his advantage. I try to bring a knee up, but can’t put enough force into it. He slugs my nose, something cracks, and blood starts to flow.
“This is not a game!”, he growls, hitting me again.
“There are no spectators!”, and grazes my cheek as I try to avoid the third blow.
“You are an ally, or you are an enemy!”, as the fourth punch rattles my jaw and has me seeing stars.
“You don’t show your enemy mercy!”, he exclaims, and I manage to jerk my right arm free. My desperation can’t make up for the pain and inferior position, though, so my swing at him is too feeble to accomplish much. He lands a series of rapid punches; I bite my tongue, feel teeth knocked loose, and curse myself for getting into this situation.
He shouts, “You don’t let your enemy live to-“, and suddenly a hand grabs his hair,. It yanks his head back, and another hand brings a knife across his exposed throat. Blood sprays on to my face and into my eyes. I can’t see his final seconds of life, but I can hear...sounds I still hear in my head, but can’t describe.
His body falls to the ground beside me, and after several seconds, something cool is thrust into my hand. “Pour that over your face”, a gruff voice commands, and I fumble with the container before splashing my face with lukewarm water.
As my vision clears up, I find three Filipino marines standing over me. Another is searching the body, while two more crouch with their rifles at the ready.
“My God!”, I stammer. One of the marines, a grizzled looking sergeant reaches out, and I hand the canteen back to him. “Ah....he was...he was going on about it not being a game, no spectators, ally or enemy...he was crazy!”, I exclaim.
“No”, the sergeant says sadly, “He was right.”
.......
The trip back to the beach is quick and direct. One of the marines is either holding me up or holding on to me in case I feel like wandering off. Probably both. His strong grip doesn’t release me until we’re on the sand.
The lieutenant - the one who loaned me the pistol - says scornfully, “I see how much faith you put in my words. Idiot.” To the sergeant, he asks, “Did you pick up a pistol with this one?”
The sergeant hands it over wordlessly. “Did you try to shoot him?”, the lieutenant asks me.
“No”, I mutter.
“I am not surprised.”, he says. “It would have mis-fired anyway. Obviously you dropped it in some mud and couldn’t be bothered to clean it.” Oh. Right. It must have gotten that way when I ducked from that shot I thought I’d heard.
“A little common sense, some cojones , and you wouldn’t be bleeding all over yourself right now”, the lieutenant says. “You are most fortunate that Sergeant Vasquez was close by.”
“Yeah”, I reply.
......
As night falls, the marines are estimating about forty-five of their own killed, plus a few others in a bad way, versus something like three hundred SALSA fighters. What remains of this SALSA force - Lt-Cdr. Guerrero figures about four hundred more - are fleeing in all directions, minus most of their equipment and supplies.
I’m astonished that the force is this big, but Guerrero says the intelligence is good. I’m also astonished that the marines landed at what were essentially even odds. “Surprise, aggression, and heavy back-up make a big difference” is Guerrero’s explanation.
No word yet on where we’re off to next. It’s expected that we’ll be here until tomorrow as the marines police the area and destroy any useful equipment left behind by SALSA. There’s word that the Filipino pre-dreadnought Fernando is on its way to shell another SALSA position, but we’re not going that way. More likely we’ll linger around this part of Mindinao, in case the Army needs a hand with anything.
So I’m back in the flag accommodations on Dara Shikoh , writing up this story and wishing I had a bottle of gin to dull the pain. I’ve lost three teeth, have a broken nose, and livid bruises. So says a marine - the ship’s doctors are still operating on his injured comrades and don’t have time to deal with a newspaperman who let himself get beaten up by a prisoner.
I’ve now been scolded by Captain Saraswathi, Lt-Cdr. Guerrero, two petty officers, the boatswain on the launch, and a priest I’m learned is the ship’s cleric, all of whom have told me that I’m lucky to be alive. I can’t disagree with that assessment. I realize now that this is not some sort of friend gentleman’s war with parole and codes of conduct; SALSA and the Philippines are in a visceral, no-holds-barred, anything-goes brawl to the end. As long as I remain here, covering this story, I’d better remember it. Otherwise the next time my name appears in print will be in the Obituaries.
Thomas Lincoln is a freelance reporter from Portland, Oregon.