At 2300 last night the howitzers let out the darndest barrage I've ever heard. The Americans appeared to fire all four at once, sending the whole house skimming with each shot. Another glass pane tinkled to the floor in my room around midnight, and soon after a branch of one of our trees fell through the porch roof and crashed through my bathroom window. I wondered how the Japanese on the receiving end could take it

Just before dawn, at least two Japanese howitzers or mortars opened up from a southeasterly direction (toward the mountains), perhaps taking a last crack at Manila. Their targets were the Nagtahan pontoon bridge and the battery behind us. One shell overshot the bridge and landed in the Manila Gas compound, killing one of four Swiss taking refuge there. Another landed 200 meters long in Santa Ana, caving in a house and causing more casualties. Several others went astray and landed harmlessly. Three of the 12 to 15 shells aimed at the howitzers behind us landed on Manga Avenue. I ducked as one whizzed by close to our porch and landed in the Preysler garden. The explosions were less intrusive than the sound of the howitzers firing. The White Cross was also shelled without casualties. Santo Tomas internees were herded from their shanties into the buildings but the camp took no hits.

A Piper Cub went up to find the batteries; its drone lulled me back to sleep. Soon enough American planes appeared to drop their eggs on the source. At 0715, the howitzers opened up in angry defiance. It was worse than ever — lampshades fell, books toppled from shelves and the wind raced through the rooms of our house in spasmodic cadence.

. . . .

While tanks crossed southward through the beefed-up pontoon bridge, American troops continued their push into Manila from the South. Progress is slow — casualties are always a consideration of war. Ermita, Paco and Malate should soon be freed, but the Japanese will retreat into Intramuros and fight to the last man there. In the meantime, they continue to terrorize residents awaiting liberation.

I met Penny and told him I'd get his story tomorrow. I also saw Romiro Cartagena, Paul Meyer and Madame Heredia at San Beda. Getting stories was easy; getting them to stop talking was hard.

Two of Mrs. Heredia's sons are alive, but a third, Raymundo, may be a goner at Ermita. The lady had been in a very dangerous area with her youngest son, Angel, when fire forced them to move. Carrying a few provisions, they headed for her son Emilio's abode, but fate, fire, bullets and shells forced them into another route that fortunately led to safety. Wounded by shrapnel, Emilio reached safety with his wife and baby; his father-in-law was left behind — dead.

. . . .

continues...