The Foreign Service Journal, June 2009

J U N E 2 0 0 9 / F O R E I G N S E R V I C E J O U R N A L 39 fore, an overwhelmingly outnum- bered garrison of Americans and Filipinos had held out heroically under months of bombardment be- fore their inevitable surrender to the Japanese. The visit would give us an op- portunity to see firsthand the condi- tions under which the beleaguer- ed force had lived — especially the complex of caves and tunnels that provided the garrison’s only shelter, the claus- trophobic maze that encompassed living space, infirmary, storerooms and operations center, as well as General Doug- las MacArthur’s headquarters and that of the elected Philippine government. During the two-hour trip, we felt the rigors of the past week’s negotiations melt away. Yesterday we were gov- ernment officials with a job to do; today we were tourists, intent only on relaxing and immersing ourselves in the his- tory and locale of some of World War II’s most significant events. Well past the midpoint of the trip, an extraordinary sight seized our attention — a small island totally sur- mounted by what appeared to be a concrete battleship. And that is exactly what it was. Larger than a football field, its walls 25 to 36 feet thick, its deck more than 40 feet above the water, its armament four 14-inch naval guns in two heavily armored turrets, Fort Drum was an immobile concrete battleship that had dominated the entry toManila Bay ever since its construction in the early 1900s. Al- though all but obsolete by 1942, it was one of Manila’s last harbor defenses to fall to the Japanese. A Concrete Battleship Seeing our obvious interest, our hosts moved the launch closer to the fort, where we could fully appreciate its size and see the hundreds of shell-holes that pocked its sides. Someone in charge read my mind and, on the spur of the moment, suggested we pull alongside and go aboard. Climbing to the main deck, we found ourselves facing a broad ramp, perhaps 20 feet wide, which led slightly downward toward an equally broad open doorway into the interior. I barely noticed the two striped sawhorses lying on their sides near the entryway, though the word “caution” flashed ever so brief- ly through my mind as I led both delegations forward. Just inside the doorway, the ambient light changed in- stantly from blinding day to blackest night. After a few steps, I stopped to give my eyes time to adjust. Still sight- less after a minute or two, I placed my hands behind my eyes, like a horse’s blinders, to block more of the glare from outside. This helped, if only a little. I could sense, not re- ally see, a very large room and — perhaps five or six feet in front of me— the short, frayed remnant of a rope hang- ing from the ceiling. But nothing more. Realizing that the visibility was not going to get any bet- ter, I started forward. It was nearly the last step I ever took. One of the most remarkable of human phenomena is the way our sense of time slows down — or maybe our thought processes speed up — when we are in extremis. My thoughts, still vivid in memory, went like this: First: “I’m falling.” Next: “Hey, I’m still falling.” Third: “This is taking one helluva long time; I could get hurt.” Fourth: “Is this the end?” Fifth: “Nobody up there in the dark even knows this drop-off is here; I’d better warn them.” So I did — I said, “Aaaaaaaaaaaa…!” And finally — splash! Triaging Fear Surprisingly, my thoughts were calm and fairly well or- ganized when I regained my feet. Relief at being alive, es- sentially unhurt, and standing in no more than a foot of water, was tempered by the realization — which grew quickly to fear — that I might not be alone down there in the dark. Snakes? Sharks? Morays? Are there ’gators in the Philippines? I quickly established communication with the folks up top, telling them I was OK but needed light and a long rope, in that order. And fast! The light came quickly, large balls of crumpled news- paper set aflame with a cigarette lighter. This brought a new fear — might there be some flammable petroleum F O C U S Just inside the doorway, the ambient light changed instantly from blinding day to blackest night. John J. St. John began his Foreign Service career in Mon- terrey in 1961 and retired as director of Mexican affairs in 1989. Among other postings, he was economic minister in Geneva from 1980 to 1984, served in London and Man- agua, and held two office directorships in the Economic Affairs Bureau.