For seven days now we are without radio, and consequently, without news. The press is ashamed to circulate outside the capital, out of respect for the guerrillas of the air raid siren sounds—at most for ten hours. Its week-long silence means that the bombing of Manila must have been uninterrupted.
We learned from the people who escaped from that hell that from 4:00 in the morning of the 14th to 6:00 in the morning of the 17th, there was a continuous wave of bombers with only a six-hour respite. During this dark night, the Americans landed in Palawan, and in Mindoro, the latter being less than two hundred kilometers from the Mecca of their aspirations.
To give us an idea of the hunger and terror reigning in the capital, we were told that a member of the Cabinet was having only a meal a day, consisting of porridge.
Deaths from bombs and from hunger plague the streets and many houses. Caravans of rugged and hungry people are abandoning the city on foot, carrying the few belongings they can load on their shoulders. All sorts of locomotion, including carts, have been confiscated by the Imperial Army. Manila is suffering more than the most punished Sodom of this war. May God cut short the rain of fire and sulphur, if only in consideration of the many who are just.