While the planes continue unloading their fury upon the nerve of the Japanese defense—I admit that I was unable to put down in detail the daily happenings about the bombardments here in Baguio—these winged clouds pass by without greeting us a bit: they despise us. While the Manila populace, before they could enjoy a respite of a clear atmosphere, have to run for cover under any shelter, convinced that in the end, a rain of bombs and bullets would fall both on the just and the unjust, causing not a few deaths.
Here, on the contrary, we are living in Limbo. We pass our time guessing their point of departure and their unloading, following them with our fingers, our eyes, and when they are out of sight, with our hearing. They always emerge from the East as black spots, as if coming from the distant Pacific, flying almost simultaneously like a swarm of bees. They pass over our heads and disappear among the clouds, over the Gulf of Lingayen. Then comes the rhythmic thunder… boom… boom… boom… like the heavy pounding of a giant mallet deadened by distance. Rarely can the buzzing of the engines be clearly distinguished as they fly hidden behind the clouds.