When Bataan fell, Crispin and Luisito Ante (PA) and Alberto Cano ( USAFFE) husband of Mama's older sister Consorcia, were taken prisoners. They survived the death march and were brought to O'Donnell concentration camp in Capas, Tarlac. The harsh conditions in the camp weakened and emaciated them; they were scarcely fed - a ladle of gruel once a day. The unforgiving sun wrinkled their bodies and led them into a state of perpetual thirst. The brother in law, Albero Cano, died in the concentration camp. He had dysentery and could not hold his bowels. Crispin and Sitoy did not utter a prayer when he died; they just bowed their heads and lamented his passing. They were more concerned about how they'd explain to their sister why Alberto died and they survived. A burial detail claimed the corpse and unceremoniously dumped it in a communal grave. Countless mounds jutted on a clearing behind the camp - countless men: good men, fathers, brothers, sons, unknown soldiers - tragic casualties of war. They wondered if they would survive.
There were 9,000 Americans and 60,000 Filipinos held at O'Donnell. American dead totaled 1,500. Twenty thousand Filipinos perished.
The brothers lived - day by painful day, encouraging each other, watching each other, careful not to attract the attention of brutal guards. On the edge of despair and wanting to give up, they thought of their children and persevered. They hoped to be with the children again, to watch their eager faces, to hug their fragile bodies for one last time ... before they die.
During the Death March, Crispin wondered whether there was a God, whether God willingly allowed the monstrosity of war to happen. "Why? Why?" If there is a God he must be a cruel God, he concluded. He lost his faith.
When rains began to fall, mending emaciated bodies and quenching the insatiable thirst, the sliver of hope they held in their hearts grew. They looked longingly at the nearby hills overgrown with tall cogon grasses topped with white feathery flowers temptingly beckoning them to escape.
They managed to escape, they could not remember how. They hid in the hills until they deemed it safe to return home. They felt a delirious joy at their homecoming, hugging their wives and children without a word. They had been to hell, didn't like what they saw.
Sitoy came to terms with himself and quietly led his family home. Crispin's hate lingered , he had witnessed too many atrocities which tore his conscience and caused him to die a little each day. He sought revenge; a consuming hate possessed him.
Surviving American and Filipino military personnel refused to surrender and formed guerilla bands who harried the enemy by fighting a war of detachment, striking at his flanks and rear, interrupting his lines of communication, forcing the enemy to spread out his occupation forces.
The leadership of guerilla bands consisted largely of military men : Ruperto Kangleon headed the Samar-Leyte Command. Lt. Eleuterio Adevoso operated mostly around Mt. Makiling and the area along Laguna de Bay including the towns of Pila, Pagsanjan and Los Banos.
Crispin headed a guerilla band which operated among the foothills of Albay, using familiarity of terrain to his advantage. The zeal with which he engaged the enemy reflected his hate for the Japanese. Captured enemy soldiers were made to run then shot for sport , others were made to dig a trench and executed by hitting the nape with the back of a shovel as they kneeled beside the trenches.
At night, he would wrestle with his soul; the killings were dehumanizing him, turning him into the very monster he loathed. He had nightmares from the Death March - of men shot and bayoneted while rushing to an artesian well to drink - life exchanged for one lousy drop of water. He lost his best friend who fought with him while they held a picket line in Abucay at that artesian well. It fueled his hate.
One of his men, a private in the regular army, volunteered for every skirmish against the enemy. A quiet man who kept mostly to himself, he was happiest while engaging an enemy. He was a farmer with a wife and two daughters, After Corregidor, he went back to his small farm and raised a few crops. All he wanted was to be left in peace. One afternoon, he came home to find his wife and daughters raped and murdered. He quietly buried his family behind his little shack, clutching a piece of cloth from a Japanese uniform.
One night, Crispin chanced upon him nonchalantly plucking the nails of a young Japanese captive, shallow knife wounds crisscrossing his limp body, eyes gouged and puffy, passing in and out of consciousness, kept barely alive to suffer more pain. Santos had a vacant look on his face, clearly he was not enjoying what he was doing.
Crispin thought he was beyond remorse and compassion. He was wrong. Mercifully, he aimed his 45 caliber pistol and fired, the consuming hate purged from his being. His conscience was intact; he had regained his soul. Gingerly, he lifted Santos up and embraced him.
