Tonight, though, I thought I would write about the Baluga. It could get me into trouble to write about it, should anybody get their hands on this journal, but I have never been sure I did the right thing in killing that Baluga anyway, and perhaps, by putting it down on paper, I might come to some sort of conclusion.

The Balugas of Pinatuba in the Philippines are a Negrito race; a race of little men and women rarely growing more than three and a half feet tall. They are mighty primitive, not even speaking Tagalog, the main Filipino dialect, and no English at all. Most of them live on and around Mount Pinatuba, eking out a bare existence by planting sweet potatoes, and by eating small animals they manage to bag with bows and arrows. They never wash and their little black bodies are scaly most of the time, unless they happen to be surprised by a quick tropical rain. Nearby our Pampanga field there was a small villageful of them, perhaps twenty families in all, and they were a bit more civilized than the rest of the tribe that lived on Mount Pinatuba. We airmen always passed through the little village on our way to the barrio and the Air Force Settlement. It was interesting to watch their activities in community living. There was one huge black pot in the middle of the sandy street, and the older Balugas, men and women, kept a hot fire going under it all of the time. The younger men, after foraging in the jungle, would throw what they caught or bagged into the pot. The young women would throw in sweet potatoes from time to time, or else wrap the potatoes in banana leaves and shove them under the coals. When hungry, they would pick up a pointed stick and stab it into the pot and eat what they speared; a lizard, a section of a snake, a field mouse, a portion of rabbit or a sweet potato. It was an honest, communistic way of living.

On paydays, five or six of the young Baluga men would come to the field and stand around hoping some airman would buy a bow and arrow set. In this manner the Balugas obtained cash. The arrows, as I recall, were three pesos apiece and the bows sold for ten. You couldn't haggle about price because they couldn't understand you. The price never varied and they wouldn't take five pesos for an arrow or two and a half; it had to be three. Several airmen bought sets consisting of a bow and three arrows and mailed them back to the States. I guess they wanted them for souvenirs. I never bought any because they were too crudely made to suit me, and besides, I wouldn't have, had any use for them.

One of the Balugas worked for the squadron. He was very old, but his job wasn't difficult. He pulled a weighted burlap sack over the sand greens of our nine-hole golf course every day. It was a strange sight, when I first arrived at the field, to sit on the porch railing and look across the road to hole number five and see this tiny black man in a dirty loin cloth, clutching a bow and arrow in one hand and dragging a burlap sack around and around the sand green. He was serious about this work and I often wondered how the job had been explained to him in the first place. He didn't speak a word of English. On payday the Charge of Quarters would get a ten-peso check from the first sergeant and take the Baluga into the PX to cash it. The Baluga would make an X on the back, and after the CQ countersigned the check he would give the Baluga ten one-peso bills.

Many of the men tried to kid the old Baluga. They would question him and he always listened attentively. After listening for a decent interval he would say: "Junque cigarillo mo!" meaning, "Give me your cigarette!" or actually, to give him a cigarette. He would take the cigarette that was offered, light it, and put it between his teeth with the fire part inside his mouth and smoke it. The interview was over, so far as he was concerned, after he got the cigarette. He would leave then, and wouldn't be seen until the next day. There he would be again, out on the golf course dragging the burlap sack around the greens. After a few weeks I was used to the sight and it no longer seemed strange to me. I still can't work up any excitement about his death and it means nothing to me. Perhaps it should. That's why I'm writing this down; to see if I should be affected in any way with what happened. I would like to know.

Guard duty was a fairly simple matter at Pampanga. There were two posts, watchman type, the detail calling for two NCOs and four airmen. One post was at the hangar area and the other was around the barracks area and the officer's row. The shifts were from six to midnight and from midnight to six. The next day, following a guard shift, was an off day unless there happened to be a prisoner in our little guardhouse, and if there were, (sometimes Leech Hudson was in for a few days) the four Airmen of the guard split the day four ways and worked the prisoner. Guard duty wasn't too bad and it only came around about twice a month.

The night this happened I was on the midnight to six shifts on Post Number Two; the barracks area and officer's row. There was a telephone in the dayroom by the barracks and another one in the garage at the end of the officer's row of houses behind a captain's residence. It took fifteen minutes to patrol from the dayroom to the garage and one of the orders was to call the sergeant of the guard every twenty minutes to tell him everything was all right. Once from the dayroom phone and twenty minutes later from the garage phone. I learned early in the game that it was just as easy to sit on a box in the garage and make several calls from there instead of doing the tedious patrolling and the sergeant wouldn't know the difference anyway. Another order on Post Number Two was to shoot all loose dogs. The reason for this order was that in the tropical heat the dogs that abounded in the barrios caught rabies quite easily, and the diet they lived on, consisting mostly of fish heads and the leftover rice the Filipinos gave them, caused them to lose their hair and raised large red sores on their bodies. Such an animal could spread disease. It was best to shoot them. I mention this order to prove I was entirely within my rights on this night I am writing about. The sentinel carried a riot gun, commonly called a sawed-off shotgun, and four shells. I was always on the lookout for dogs in the hope I could shoot one to break the monotony of the long night.

It was about 2.A.m. and I had just made a call from the garage telling the sergeant everything was okay. I saw a light coming down the alley and got to my feet, cocked my gun and took the safety off. I stepped out of the shadow and challenged.

"Halt! Who's there?" The light kept coming. It was the old Baluga who worked on the golf course and he was carrying a candle stuck on a board. He stopped and grimaced at me, holding the candle up so I could see his face. He had no business being there at that time of night, but was using the alley as a shortcut to get to the trail leading to the Baluga village.

"Looks to me like you're lost, old man," I said. "Junque cigarillo mo!" he said.

The feeling I got when he said those three words filled me with compassion for the old man. He was on the bottom rung of the ladder. It was a feeling of great pity I felt, and at the same time one of great love. It swelled inside me. I couldn't hold all of it. My heart was filled with the strong emotions. I wanted to do something for him. This primitive little man. He had nothing. He would never have anything.

I knew there was only one thing I could do for him and I had to do it. My eyes began to blur and just before the tears rolled down my cheeks I pulled the trigger. The shot caught him full in the chest and he fell backward, slammed to the ground. His candle went out as it fell in the thick dust of the alley. I put the safety on and stood silently for a full minute, listening to the night. It was a still night and I knew the sergeant of the guard heard the shot at the other end of the field. I called the guardhouse from the garage.

"This is Post Number Two, Sergeant Irby. I just shot at a dog, but I missed him."

"All right. I heard the shot. Be sure you get him next time. These shells cost the government twenty cents apiece."

"I know what they cost. I'm going to stay on the officer's row for a few more minutes in case he comes back."

"Okay," he said and he hung up.

That gave me twenty minutes before I had to call again. The tears that had been rolling down my cheeks were gone. My hands began to shake and I was afraid. I was afraid of being caught. Although my motives had been good and I had meant well, I knew that I would be court-martialed if they found me with a dead Baluga. I put the shotgun inside the garage by the telephone. I carried the dead Baluga into the open field behind the row of houses. It was a rocky field, scattered here and there with grey fieldstones and thick patches of lush grass. The Baluga was very light in my arms. I found a shallow sandy depression in the uneven field, scooped it deeper with my foot, and put the little man into it. I covered him with a layer of sand and small rocks and brushed the grave clear of footprints and markings with a piece of brush. I returned to the road for his bow and arrows and piece of board with candle. I buried these in the field. Looking at my watch I noticed the twenty minutes were up. I called the guardhouse.

"Post Number Two. Everything okay," I said.

"Did you see the dog again?"

"No. But I'm keeping an eye out."

"Okay." He hung up.

I knew I had to kill a dog; I had to kill one to discourage suspicion. Our squadron commander had a dog. Prince. A boxer. I took my shotgun and walked up the alley to the major's house. Prince was tied to his latticed doghouse in the back yard. He was awake and licked my hand when I patted him on the head. I untied him, and holding him by the collar, I led him down the alley for a hundred yards or so. Foolishly, I turned him loose and the frisky animal galloped away. He was playful and ran around in circles. He would jump up on me and then dart away. I called him softly. He paid no attention. I chased the beast and after five miserable minutes he allowed me to catch him. Holding him by the collar I held the muzzle of the shotgun against his side with my free hand and pulled the trigger. He dropped to the dust. I called the guardhouse.

"This is Post Number Two. I shot the dog."

"Good."

"I don't think it's a barrio dog though."

"You don't?"

"No. It looks a lot like Prince."

"The major's dog?"

"Yes. I think it is," I said.

"Jesus!"

"How was I to know? He was running loose."

"I'm coming up there. Wait for me by the garage phone."

Sergeant Irby examined Prince and we covered the dog with a burlap sack I found in the garage. He wrote a report for his guard book the way I described it. At 6 A.M. I was relieved. I ate breakfast in the mess hall and went to bed. I was dead tired.

At 10 A.M. the Charge of Quarters woke me.

"The major wants to see you in the orderly room. Get dressed."

"What does he want to see me about?" I asked.

"I can't imagine," the CQ said.

I reported to the first sergeant in the orderly room. I didn't like the first sergeant very well. He always had something unpleasant to say to everybody. He was in his late forties, bald, and his large teeth looked as if they were slipcovered with Muscat grape skins. His mouth was smiling at me.

"The old man wants to see you, Blake. Do you know how to report?"

"Of course I do."

"I suppose you've got a good story ready?"

"What do you mean, Sergeant?"

"All right, Blake. Report to the major."

I knocked on the inner door and the major told me to come in. I halted one pace away from his desk, saluted, and reported.

"Sir. Basic Airman Blake reports to the squadron commander as directed by the first sergeant."

He returned my salute and stared at me. His face was old; his skin was furrowed and creased with deep wrinkles. His eyes, however, were bright and alert. They looked me over like two tropical fish exploring a new aquarium.

"Blake. Why did you shoot my dog?"

"He was running loose. I didn't recognize him."

"You're a liar, Blake."

"No, sir."

"Then why did you shoot my dog?"

"He was running loose like I said, sir. I missed him with my first shot and then when he came around again I bagged him. I didn't know it was Prince, sir."

"Blake, there were powder bums on his side. The muzzle of that gun was so close the shot didn't even have a chance to scatter."

"He was running by me pretty fast, sir."

He didn't say anything for a long time. He just looked at me. I was still standing at attention. Perspiration was flowing down my back under my starched khaki shirt. I saw the tears start in his eyes, and I watched them roll down his cheeks. I was ashamed for him and then I was sorry for him. He felt about me just like I had felt about the Baluga. I was glad he didn't have a shotgun in his hand.

"That's all, Blake."

"Yes, sir." I saluted, did an about face, and closed the door behind me.

"You ought to feel real proud of yourself," the first sergeant said.

"I didn't write the guard orders. You people did," I said.

"Get the hell out of here!" he yelled at me.

I went back to bed.

As far as I know they have never found the buried Baluga. I imagine the ants have got him by now.

Now that I've written all of this down I find that I still feel sorry for the Baluga. But unlike the major, at least I tried to do the right thing.