Monday, July 4, 2011

SWAT PHILIPPINE STYLE


Note: In the aftermath of the bloody hostage-taking drama at the Luneta, friend Cesar Aquino wanted my views on SWAT.

 
                                                                                                                              August 28

Dear Sar: This is to respond to your text re SWAT, Philippine-style.

          The modern army has always had special operations groups trained and utilized for non-traditional, paramilitary purposes. The American Era Philippine Constabulary (PC) and the Philippine Scouts may have been, in today’s usage, Special Ops. The PC was actually a national police force with military training and equipment, while the Scouts were originally composed of surrenderees from the indigenous tribes, whose main job was to acquaint the invaders with locations and personnel in the invaded country. This was the situation in The Firewalkers.

         In the 1950s,  American strategic interests in the Far East was such that they maneuvered  the creation, and largely trained the Philippine Army Scout Rangers, commanded by Rocky Ileto, to do counter insurgency operations. At the same time, Napoleon Valeriano led the Nenita Unit, composed of the internationally-famous 10th BCT and two other battalions, whose unpleasant methods were the terror of the Visayas region. I saw the Nenita at work and play in Cavite when I was a boy, but by that time they had become a PR unit: on their battle trucks, they fetched drums of precious fresh water for the townspeople of Mendez, showed propaganda movies, played basketball at the town plaza against our local Sabre Jets, with Carmen Rosales – Valeriano’s rumored sweetheart – as the Nenita’s backlit, auburn-haloed muse.

          Then, the Philippine Constabulary was a department of the AFP. It was the force called upon 1) for problems too big for municipal police forces, such as insurgencies, etc., but, mainly 2) as the central government’s counter-balance designed to whip down local executives whose police forces became too big and began operating as private armies. Late in the Marcos era, the PC became by law the PC-Integrated National Police, and was later again spun out as a purely civilian bureau  under the Department of Interior. By legal fiat, all of today’s Philippine policemen are civilians like you and me.

         Which brings us to the American invention called SWAT. American police are civilian units and were, for most of their history, well served with civilian, primarily defensive weapons and tactics. But beginning in the 70s American police administrators, whether honestly or to enhance their own political positions, began to report a new kind of criminal activity that required a more militarized response. This was Urban Terrorism. First from radicals like the Black Panthers, then the armed anti-war organizations such as the Weathermen, the right-wing Militias, religious and political loonies, the drug cartels, and finally the jihadists.  All these folk appeared ready to advance their causes by slaughtering people who are not party to their grievances. It was against these that Special Weapons And Tactics were devised.


          The Philippine police situation then was very different. Our national police was ALREADY PARAMILITARY, in fact a branch of the armed forces where Special Forces equipment and training were issued. Still, our Marcos-era politicians jumped on the SWAT bandwagon enthusiastically, for different reasons. 

           The 3 politicians who controlled our armed personnel began consolidating elite troops and special equipment around themselves, probably as insurance against each other. Marcos had the Presidential Security Command as the Imperial Guard. The PSC was Ilocano, and officered  by loyalists, mostly University of the Philippines ROTC, including rather lousy schoolmates surnamed  *****, ******, etc.  Friend Gerrie Barangan’s dad, Santiago Barangan, was later commander there.  What’s more our UP ROTC had a formidable contingent in the MalacaƱang technocratic brainthrust, led by Boy Morales, Eddie Soliman, Mat Defensor, Ding Navarro, Teddy Rey, etc. 

            Enrile’s  MND had a handpicked cadre from the top graduates of the PMA. Ramos, having been spurned as Army Chief and installed only as PC chief, quietly created his own Praetorians: the PNP Special Action Force. I believe Marcos, through Ver also controlled their choice of  Regional Police forces, the most important of which was Metro Manila, policed by the METRODISCOM. The best people and officers in these units functioned as Special Ops, SWAT.

          With some notable exceptions, the METRODISCOM officers were battle tested in Mindanao. It had American-trained units commanded by young lieutenants fresh from the PMA, and their baptism of fire against the Moro, including units under friends Felix Angue and Sam Tucay.  Most members of these units were paratroopers, divers, certified firearms experts, snipers, pistol fighters.  It was they that performed  those incredible feats that form part of the local, secret Special Operations lore: the rescue of hundreds of kidnap victims and hostages including the heiress ****** ********, the rescue of the American finance man ****** and the simultaneous neutralization of a number of the kidnappers’ safe houses, leaving all perpetrators dead. All perps dead.

          At Cawa-cawa in your home town of Zamboanga, Sammy Tucay’s LRU failed to rescue that general held by Rizal Alih, but that was because the grandstanding generals performing for the newly freed media, specially live TV, messed the operations up. Still, LRU showed exceptional bravery: commanded to attack the fortified second floor, never mind that Alih knew from media that they were coming, they stormed up and were shot to pieces. On live TV I saw how, when finally stretchered out, their wounded refused  to give up their rifles to the Red Cross, insisting on being armed on the way to the hospital.  I am proud to say these men, specially the valiant five who reached the second floor and halfway down the hall where Alih was – with whom I still shoot, drink, and share time and stories - are good friends of mine to this day.

 

  
          From newspaper accounts, I gather there were 4 SWAT units available to assault the hostage bus at the Luneta:

1.     The PNP Special Action Force
2.     The Regional Mobile Group (RMG), with the LRU, commanded by friend and teammate **** ******
3.     The so-called Super SWAT of the MPD, commanded by ****  ** ** ****, former LRU, US trained.
4.     The MPD SWAT under Pascual: The least trained of all.

Predictably the clowns in command chose to use the MPD SWAT.
       
       As friend Mon Tulfo says, it is all politics.  Mon and his firearms instructor Philip Manlapaz were practicing one-shot to the A from an inside-the-pants-holster under an Americana suit.  We agreed. The incompetent new generals brought in by the Aquino people stuck to the bata-bata system and chose their own incompetents to do the job the other units could do better.

          This is of course the gripe of old friend Felix Angue, whose political naivete  Tulfo mocked, but whose personal integrity, competence and courage no one, not even his political enemies, dares challenge. Pushed by Recah Trinidad, Mon Tulfo and the Inquirer championed Felix when, in 1990, as Zamboanga SWOG, he corralled  a whole fucking fleet of smuggling boats in a cove and refused their release, as demanded by the powerful. Our friend, the late and fondly missed Fernando Poe Jr enlisted  Vice President Joseph Estrada’s help then ( I remember Felix and I checking our pistols with Erap’s security at the Polk Street mansion), and then again when Felix – allegedly restricted by orders from firing on Chinese naval troops disguised as fishermen in the Spratleys –rammed the Chinese boat and sank it. Or this elaboration may be part of Special Ops legend.

          What is indisputable is that Special Ops people seem to find it specially difficult to transition into politics. Witness McChrystal. Leaders should, if they had any sense, beware of choosing the malleable, comfortable, unobtrusive subordinate where the evident requirement is for something,  someone clearer, fiercer and more dangerous, and whose dedication is only to the mission at hand.




                                                                                Sincerely, Erwin
           

   

3 NICK JOAQUIN STORIES


Note: Some years ago one of Nick Joaquin's relatives solicited from me a memory of the man. The memory was to be 300 words long. Here is what I wrote then. I understand a book from that effort is published, but since I have not received any further communication from the solicitor, I have no idea if this piece is included in the book.


I first met Nick Joaquin in June of 1960. He was then 43 years old, section editor of the Philippines Free Press, and at the height of his literary powers. I was 15, a beginning writer, and had just started sophomore year at the University. Nick had published my first serious short story in his magazine earlier that week, but he changed the title and cut off a few words. I was absolutely embarrassed and incensed. So I sought him out at the old Free Press offices on Avenida Rizal. It was raining hard. Nick was not there when I arrived. He will be here later, said the guard, I will tell him you were looking for him.

A year or so later, at a symposium on new Philippine Literature sponsored by the PEN, Nick recounted his outrageously comic version of this meeting. He told them how the snotty whippersnapper, full of himself,  had come to tear up the royalty check and throw the pieces at his face. He told them I had come to beat him up.

What really happened was that I went to the movies to pass away the waiting time, and by afternoon I was hungry, wet and not very angry anymore. The same guard delivered me up to Nick at his court at the Free Press canteen, where he presided over his subalterns, overwhelming them,  and the blare of rain and traffic two floors below, with his voice. Seeing me with the guard, Nick pointed and asked, “O ikaw, anong gusto mo?” I said I wanted a beer. On the table with Nick that afternoon were idols Greg Brilliantes and Ding Nolledo, later dear friends also.

2

Through the years, my UP friends regularly crashed the Silliman Writers’ Workshop. One such year Nick was a guest lecturer. Wanting to steal a match on the other UP fellows Willie Sanchez and myself proceeded to Nick’s hotel, there to be told that Mr. Joaquin was some politician’s guest and was not expected until later. Unfazed Willie and I sat ourselves at the hotel restaurant, wrapped napkins about our necks and set out to drink – better yet to eat and drink – ourselves to the early death we deserved.  We drank a bottle of good scotch chased by a lot of beer, feasted on steaks, lobsters, oysters. We puked ourselves empty a few times, then refilled ourselves over again, dimly beginning to realize that Nick may not return to the hotel in time to rescue us. Finally the beleaguered hotel manager told us to settle our bill as it was closing time.
         “Charge it to Mr. Joaquin’s room, please.”
         “Sorry we cannot do that without Mr. Joaquin’s express consent.”
         The sobering prospect of jail suddenly presented itself. Clutching at straws, “We are Mr. Joaquin’s children,” we declared.
          “I happen to know Mr. Joaquin”, he announced triumphantly.  “I know Mr. Joaquin is a bachelor.”     
         Which was when Nick, in perfect time, came singing something god-awful through the door.

3


 

The last time I saw Nick was on the evening of Recah Trinidad’s birthday party that year he died. Actually it was Nick’s birthday too, as their anniversaries were a day apart, and that was how we celebrated the two of them through the long decades. In those decades Nick had given generously of his friendship, honoring us for whatever little thing we did, defending us in our sloth and our many shortcomings. From the beginning he introduced us to his friends – John Siler, Elena Roco, Jose Garcia Villa – and to his family – his doting sisters, his brothers, specially Ping whose piano we enjoyed at the Colombian. He befriended our friends and our families in turn. We had many crazy adventures together, some too dangerous or too scandalous still to be told. After the operation he stopped smoking his Unions, and his sober time seemed to shorten: six beers, four beers, finally two. That night at Recah’s I was wearing khaki shorts and Nick said “Those are exactly the pants I wore during the war,” and laughed. At his urging we sang Estrellita  one last time. Two beers and we embraced in goodbye.

I did not go to his wake or burial. I felt something of him – grim, fierce, absolutely alone -  was hostaged there, among enemies, in the pantheon. When forced to accept the award, he had stood broken at that center stage, eyes cast down, arms spread in surrender, palms open as if he waited to be sacrificed. No, never again. After all Willie Sanchez and I had already given him the river burial he deserved. One night we kidnapped Nick, quite drunk, to San Mateo below the dam, where Willie and I had a dugout river canoe. We intended to place him on the dugout, then let the Marikina bear him to where it met his Pasig wending its forlorn way to the sea and the sky –  that starlit  riverine path traveled by our holy poets from Balagtas to Rizal and Recah Trinidad. But somewhere above the river Nick Joaquin woke up screaming and threw Willie and me out of the cab.   
 

Long live!






                                                                                                 By Erwin Castillo

Christmas Letter

Dear Friends:

Jolico

As you may know old friend Jolico and wife Chiqui are currently boarding with Nene at her house in Mariposa. He has more hospital tests, and needs a base at the inn until the doctors are done with him, sometime near the New Year. It has been a full year since he was first stricken. I imagine Chiqui is straining to produce a child at this time, a miraculous child, that may tide them – and us – through the trying season.

I wish I could read Jolico’s young poems again, in a well edited, annotated volume, if only to justify my enduring admiration and affection, and the lingering awe I feel for the sorry son-of-a bitch. I have no idea if anyone alive remembers the good work he did while he was able. The poems of course, but also how he stationed himself a sentry, snarling and snapping his teeth at the phoney and pretentious, when they did not happen to be friends or donors.  There is a culture commissar  here, someone paid public money to administer our “culture”, who cynically reissued NJ’s thesis “The Heritage of Smallness” as his own. This is the sort of person Jolico of old would have merrily urinated on.


Yes, sometimes find myself quite willing to finance the printing of  Jolico’s book, even if illness and age have not made him less irascible and difficult. I have not talked to him about this of course,  but I’m sure he will say Ibigay mo na lang sa akin atik.

Men-At-Arms

 
Myself I continue with rigorous exercises recommended to prolong health and sanity. Son Diego gave me an unregistered motorcycle in need of repairs for a Christmas gift. I ride slowly and tentatively, but may grow in confidence again: I still have my motorcycle driver’s license. Meanwhile I am planning to outfit one of my Toyota 4-wheelers with a Thule carrier to transport my mountain bikes to the boondocks, though I am not much of a bicycle rider anymore either.

  I won the Super Senior Championship at the Benefactor’s Cup in Camp Crame last November. And I did rather well at the annual Bagong Diwa LRU Xmas Fellowship Shoot last Saturday. Aside from individual matches there was a CQB (Close Quarter Battle) event,  a 3-gun – pistol, rifle, shotgun- eight-member team assault exercise among the top SWAT teams in NCR. I specify “member” instead of “man” as I was pleasantly surprised by the presence of so many  young policewomen there, some of them absolute beauties, earnest in their fighting skills. Some of them were even designated team snipers!

We were allowed to field our own special team, though only six men strong: myself, old friend Joe Modequillo, Mark Enriquez, Rico Benitez, Aleman and Item, the last four being policemen in active duty. It was Item, nicknamed Black, who had that Luneta hostage-taker in his cross-hairs, but was ordered to stand down.

I used my Para-Ordnance 18-rounder in .40 S&W caliber in tactical gear,  and my Colt M4 rifle given to me by friend Sam Tucay, but extensively modified and accessorized, including the addition of the superb EO Tech optics, another gift from Diego, currently US Army issue in Afghanistan. In the enclosed photo we are wearing the Light Reaction Unit (LRU) commemorative cap, with its Servare Vitas logo.

The CQB began with the long-distance rifle sniper stage, then a 50-meter uphill run carrying all equipment, down into barricade positions firing from prone, kneeling and standing, then a pistol charge, a transition to shotguns, and finished with a wounded man rescue.  I had cuts, bruises, bleeding wounds that needed medical attention, a predicament for an old diabetic. Our team came in a close third in a field of 10 teams. I was High Individual Rifle for the second year consecutive year, and No. 6 individual pistol. Not bad for a person going on 67 competing against the Killer Elite in their 20s and 30s! As friend Sonny Yniguez could not attend, we did not have video coverage, just a few snapshots.

Range talk was about the day’s news: that the confessed plunderer Gen. Garcia was free, and that the Army was court-martialing our friend, town-and province-mate Admiral Felix Angue, who counted so many admirers among the shocked officers and men of  the Special Operations fraternity there gathered. After all, Felix founded and trained the Navy SWOG, personally led them against smugglers, Abu Sayaffs, and the Chinese naval intel camouflaged as fishermen in the Palawan Sea. Felix is one of the armed forces most decorated combat officers. He is from Maragondon, Cavite and continues to live poorly and decently in Project 4, in half-a-house as we did when we were young. Now, the military establishment with no accomplishments threatens him with musketry!  As friend King Nocom advises, send your children abroad.  I wish I could.


Retreat

 

We are having our place in Calatagan, photo enclosed, slightly fixed;  it has become quite shabby that only lawyer son Bubu and his golfing buddies and clients, who play at the country club, go there regularly. Pang lalaki na laang! as BatangueƱos say. Sonny Yniguez and I drive down every few months, and were joined there by friend Dennis Filart a few weeks ago. These two painters and art directors suggested the improvements. 

We are having the picture window enlarged and the woods below the window slightly trimmed for a grand view of the far mountains where in times past we had taken venison for feasting. The repair work is being done by friend Nalding Caunan, raconteur and former chief-of-police of Calatagan, who owns a nice, rough seaside restaurant stocked with exotic seafood and, while it lasted, free wine. The woods are full of monkeys and birds. My firing range is in nearby Tuy town, where Andy Afable’s father hailed from – rundown, where the range boys start smoke fires to drive away the clouds of mosquitoes in the daytime.

Sonny and Dennis are enthusiastic about having a reunion of old friends and office mates in Calatagan when the place is done.  The Ford Group. The Elvins and The Pasta Prontos. The San Miguel Beer Group. The Chin Wu. The Enrile Splendidos. Ireland Bros and the Colet-Orbos Group. We will try to bag deer, but have already contracted my caretaker for goat for caldereta. We three are driven delirious by the names and the memories of all those lovely, lovely girls we used to know!  When we were young we had nothing, but those lovely girls did not seem to care.

 Now we have hideouts, retreats, secret places, wine cellars, professional musicians on command, swimming pools, seasides, trucks and boats. But the girls are not there anymore! Dennis and Sonny are on Facebook and assure me it is happier to remember them as they were than to see them again in person, or even in photographs posted in the social networks. In revenge Dennis posted a photo of us tree old fellows buck naked by the Calatagan pool and I am enclosing the photo, in case you missed it. This in memory of another picture taken many decades ago in the sea off Corregidor where dear friends Lorrie and Chuchi, who did not notice us remove our trunks, beam sweetly at the camera amidst our naked butts!     

Indo-European
I just finished Martin L. West’s Indo-European Poetry and Myth from Oxford Press, a long read but quite enjoyable. His effort to credibly speculate on the nature of a dead culture and language with no physical artifacts seems to me somewhat like reconstituting unseen grandparents by watching children at play in the nursery.

Here is a more technical, specialized treatment of certain elements of  The Golden Bough and perhaps even The White Goddess. But where Frazier was obsessively inclusive, glad to be in league with the “universals” as Miss Dadufalza called them, West’s thesis is exclusive, and made me conscious of the sizeable distance between us and the Indo-European cultures of my poor education.

I imagine an English person of some training can actually dimly understand spoken Homeric Greek, the language of the Viking sagas, the Mahabharata, the Mabinogion, the whole kit-and-caboodle. In the same way that a beer salesman can understand, and more, our languages across the archipelago. I have not read Pardo de Tavera’s  article on Sanskrit and Tagalog and would appreciate to be enlightened, but if he actually believed, as Paterno did, that we were somehow related to the royal Aryans, that would be another absurdity to merit a salute from Jolico’s young bladder.

To compliment the book, I am re-reading Graves The Anger of Achilles with its splendid introduction that anticipated (inspired?) West. As a companion piece I am reading Zachary Mason’s  first novel The Lost Books of the Odyssey, and will soon form an opinion.
Merry Christmas

I also wish I could listen to friend WillyBog read To Juan at the Winter’s Solstice as he did for that Channel 13 TV Christmas show, maybe half-a-century ago. I imagine Pito Bosch nodding as he listened, and Jolico and his friend Tariq.

                   Dwell on her graciousness, dwell on her smiling,
                   Do not forget what flowers
                  The great boar trampled down in ivy time,
                  Her brow was creamy as the crested wave,
                  Her sea-grey eyes were wild
                  But nothing promised that is not performed.


                                                                                                                           Sincerely, Erwin