Before the Escolta, I stood and stared aghast. The street was impassable. The six-story, concrete Cu-Unjieng Building (allegedly of faulty construction to begin with) had completely collapsed right across the street, blocking it. The Japanese may have intentionally mined it that way. The little Escolta Bridge at the beginning of the street had also been destroyed. A lonely sign bade one welcome to this wasteland: "OFF LIMITS" — and that meant everybody. I sighed and stared in disbelief alongside several others also stunned into silence. A number of laborers had already cleared part of the street. I turned away.

Back on my bike, I turned the corner as I had done a thousand times before, but without a familiar landmark to orient myself, I got completely lost. For a brief moment I felt an eerie unease, as if I were intruding on some lifeless, burned out planet ... standing alone in a world of ruins. I had to backtrack in my mind and use dead reckoning to find my position from the known starting point. I knew then I was on Calle Raon.

Eventually I worked my way to Dad's battered little building in Reina Regente¹. Victor — though it was — over the onslaught of events that turned the city to ash and rubble, it looked defeated ... dying ... its great spirit gone. I entered Juan Luna — a part of it around the Plaza² still stood but the downtown business section was gone. I got off the bike and walked in alone. Ahead of me, hostile eyes of American MPs stared. "Er ... this your district, bud?"

"No," I answered truthfully, "but I'd like to cast a gander at the ruins of one of my best client's office. They're still across of the river."

"Wa-al," drawled the MP, "this here's really off limits but go ahead. Please don't, er ... touch anything."

I inspected the premises of the Swiss Oriental Commercial Company. The building was completely burned but the concrete vault was there — its giant door closed. But does that side door lead inside? I ventured closer for a better look ... went right in ... then my nerve failed me. The weakened structure was shaking every five seconds from the American shells landing across the river 200 yards away. If the vault had stood all this, I reasoned, it could wait till Kessler and Knecht returned ... if they're still alive. The callousness of the thought shocked me, but you feel that kind of sadism amongst ruins like these.

Back on the street the MP looked at me as if to say: Pretty tough, eh? What he really did say was: "We got here late. The people had already looted this street. The mess was bad enough but they made it much worse."

The street was littered with hundreds of thousands of military currency that wasn't worth a continental now. One of the shells screaming by above banged against something stubborn and scattered debris around us. An MP took off his helmet and whistled. "Lordy," he said, pointing to several marks made by debris. "Hiya buddy," said another MP, "you look like an American." After touring the city for five out of seven days by bike, I'm deeply tanned, but the filth and dust of this ash-strewn city coated my perspiring face. I just smiled and said, "S'long"; got on my bike and left for home.

. . . .

¹ 412 Reina Regente
² Plaza Calderón

continues...