We were “toy soldiers” in 1979
I experienced Citizens Army Training (CAT) in high school in 1979 in Baguio City High School (BCHS).
I can’t remember if my batchmates and I ever understood that it had anything to do with martial law. We were not very well-informed politically at that age, most of us were 15 years old–we just knew it was the defining experience of being a Senior in high school in those days.
The only cynical reminder (to me, at least) that CAT was part of some complex politically-inspired paramilitary indoctrination culture was the fact we memorized so many trivial things.
For example, we memorized that “our” Commander-in-chief was Pres. Ferdinand E. Marcos, our AFP Chief-of-staff was Brigadier General Fabian C. Ver—even though as early as then we already knew the joke that the general actually just used to be the Marcos’ family dri-VER. I mean, the guy had zero military credentials, he probably didn’t even know the difference between a US M1 Garand rifle and a folding umbrella.
We certainly did, because one of the compulsory skills to become a CAT officer was to be able to disassemble this vintage World War II rifle, then put it back together in under a minute and a half.
Many of us did it in a minute-20 seconds or minute-25. Alpha Coy (that’s the abbreviation for “company”) commander Jordan Diagan could do it in 52 seconds. Don’t ask what MY time was, but the fact that I was always the last one to be dismissed in weapons class ought to be a clue.
In hindsight, I should have joined the Medics Corps, instead. These guys never had to stand under the baking sun in field formations like the rest of us. They would just sit around the First Aid Station, which was a large tent on the sidelines, and wait for somebody to collapse from heatstroke. Then they’d run over to the fellow with their army stretcher and “extricate” him from the field.
On the other hand, whether I became an officer or just one of those nameless, faceless “Privates” in the rank-and-file, it did not diminish the expenses my single-parent mother had to spend.
It was substantial, for sure–paying for my “ramie” army fatigue uniform, leather combat “shoeses” (its what WE called them), army regulation green socks, T-shirt, black nylon belt, sword sash, breast plate, beret hat, the list goes on and on.
So I thought I might as well aim to become a “salutable” senior to give my mother the most “bang for the buck” so to speak. As well, me and my classmates helped transform into “nouveau riche” the people who owned the “official supplies” shops—Balderas Tailoring in Kayang Street or Conrado’s Tailoring in Bonifacio street in front of SLU.
Almost the entire focus of our senior year in City High was the preparation for the Annual Tactical Inspection—a yearly competition among different CAT corps units who qualified from all over the Philippines.
In Baguio City, we were the only CAT unit big enough (600-strong, at least) to qualify. Saint Louis University’s Boys and Girls High Schools were too few in number—and their ‘fashionista’ girls refused to wear the olive drab Army pants that our City High girls didn’t mind wearing one bit. So we were just up against Benguet’s Mountain State Agricultutal College (MSAC) High School which had about 200 cadets.
The oddysey of becoming a “commissioned” toy soldier in high school properly began in Junior year, when it was almost obligatory to join “recruitment” to the Cadet Officers Candidates Corps (COCC).
This was a yearlong scrimmage process of selecting who would be the “officers” for the following year’s CAT corps—meaning who would be the corps commander and his staff, the battalion commanders and their staff, the company commanders and the platoon leaders. BCHS Batch 1980 was about 670-strong, so we comprised about four battalions.
Almost every afternoon in the third quarter of the school year we stood in formation at the Athletic Bowl parade ground, locating our individual places in our assigned units based on marker flags staked to the ground.
It’s amazing how to this day, during our class reunions, when we couldn’t quite remember a classmate, our old CAT unit assignments were always an invaluable clue:
“Si Rapisura? Yung adjutant natin noon?”
“Ah, yes! Si Elvie, 3rd battalion commander…”
“Ni Oliver ngay, haan mo malagip? Bravo Company, 2nd platoon…!”
It’s also amusing how FORTY YEARS years we still remember which classmates we’re supposed to salute!
Regular officers from the Philippine Army were assigned by the AFP to serve as CAT Commandants in big schools like City High. Our commandant was a jolly and decidedly-likeable clown, 2nd Lt. Charito P Caceres–who gave a whole new meaning to the command “Proceed!” but I won’t even try to explain it here—it’s a private joke only Batch 80 City Highers will understand!
There was “hazing” during our last week of COCC training—but NOT the kind that injured anyone of us, except to our pride maybe. Our training officers, who were outgoing seniors, always did their worst to get us to quit right from Day One of the recruitment. Yelling in our faces at the top of their lungs,“Don’t you want to quit now, COC Dizon, huh?? DON’T YOU?? Why don’t you just quit now??!” their sworn mission was to try to cut down our number—we were just too many.
So at the completion of every corporeal punishment (“Get down and give me 50 pushups, soldier!”) they kept yelling out the same question like a broken vinyl record, “Do you want to quit now??”
The “correct” answer, of course, is “Sir, NO, sir!!!” which left them with a huge problem: there are about a hundred of us officer candidates and only around 60 “commissioned officer” positions to fill.
That is what “HELL WEEK” is for—it’s the gingerly-anticipated final initiation rites to “separate the men from the boys” (I forget the counterpart expression for girls!). It’s the last chance for our senior officers to whittle down the field—because the school armory only had 60 swords to award on Recognition Day.
I’m amazed at our senior officers’ creativeness at “hazing.” We were all blinfolded, one of them would fake retching sounds with his throat and you hear him spitting “something” into a cup. Another one says, “open your mouth!” and drops a teaspoon of raw egg yolk in your mouth. Your raw imagination led you to think the worst as you gagged and fought hard not to throw up, “How about it, soldier? Don’t you want to quit now??”
The correct answer, of course, is still “Sirlgh, NO, Sirlgh!!!” It’s only fun to reminisce NOW but at the time it lived up to its billing “HELL WEEK.”
They strung up an inch-and-a-half thick Manila rope from the high wall of the school to one of the pillars of the grandstand–about fifty yards long and 10 or 15 feet high off the ground. We had to “jungle crawl” crossing it, with our heavy wooden rifles slung on our necks. Done properly, you looked like Rambo. But if you forgot to keep your “ballast leg” hanging low enough as you pulled your way along the rope, your center of gravity became too top-heavy and you ended up spinning on the rope where you’re now hanging from it on all fours–upside down. Right below us, the Medics, like hungry crocodiles, waited for anyone of us to fall–or to inspect any broken bones. I didn’t fall but mostly I remember staring at the sky.
The most unforgettable part of HELL WEEK was making us crawl through the “Holy Hole”—which was an underground culvert about one meter in diameter and ran about 50 feet under the CAT HQ Cottage on the east side of the Athletic Bowl, exiting on a manhole right about the middle of the baseball diamond.
Boys AND girls had to go through it, there was no “soft gender” exemption, whatsoever. If you were either claustrophobic or squeamish, or BOTH, you quit. But NOBODY did!
At the end of HELL WEEK, there were NO QUITTERS. So the school youth development department head Mr. Antonio Gumabol came up with a solution: “We will create new positions to accomodate everybody!” Very AFP!
Whereas before, company commanders stood alone, this time they’d have an “Executive Officer” (Ex-O) and a guidon bearer who would hold a company banner that identified each company from the others.
That meant all of us officer candidates would get our “diamonds and siopaws”—a reference to the gold-embroidered insignias pinned to our collars that consisted of diamonds and circles indicating specific rank. What’s more, the introduction of the “guidon bearers” fired up a new competition among the company units designing their “fighting colors.”
When we did our “pasamasid” (parade-in-review) we looked like medieval gladiators flying the banners of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table. It was an absolutely fascinating sights-and-sounds show, especially given the fact that City High had its own 50-piece full marching band under the baton of Mr. Martin Balangue, the school bandmaster (who drives his 1957 Vauxhall soooo slow you could overtake him on foot!) He didn’t actually march with the band himself, more often than not he delegated that duty to one of the best high school band conductresses I’ve ever seen, Ms. Merriam Abubo.
To this day, I always struggle with getting impressed when I watch PMA cadets do a parade-in-review, or even a Silent Drill exhibition.
Why?
Because WE could do ALL THAT, and more!
We marched all year long.
It’s all we ever did.
For a whole year.
We held fake wooden rifles but we kept faithful count switching from “kanang balikat” (5 counts), “kaliwang balikat” (4 counts), “tanghal” (3 counts), “siyasat” (2 counts and a head nod), “agap” (one hard slap) all the way to “baba” (2 counts).
One kid doing it didn’t sound or look too amazing. But when all 670 of us did it en masse in total precision at Melvin Jones parade grounds, it totally melted our parents watching in pride! And THAT many kids slapping those wooden rifles at the same time SOUNDED like the way PMA does it, totally.
Our MP Company became our “pambato” when it came to Silent Marching Drills. I don’t know how they did it (they had their own “secret training”) but those guys and gals could march any letter of the alphabet into a formation on the ground. This meant they could form any 8-letter word on the ground. Why 8? The company only had two platoons, with 4 squads each and it takes one squad to form a letter—except “Q”. For some reason they hated “Q!”
One of our last class projects before we left City High upon graduation was raising money to buy 800 “Class A” fake rifles for use by the batch that came after us. These were still made of wood, but they had a simple mechanism that could mimic the sound of opening and closing the sliding bolt of a real M-14 rifle (not quite the AR-15 or mock M-16, which apparently were more expensive) and it had a real “clickable” trigger. These could not fire real bullets, of course, not even blank ones. Producing authentic-sounding rifle noises is all they could do.
We never got to use them too much ourselves, because we had graduated by the time these were delivered. But our hearts swelled with pride watching Batch 1981 duplicate our “Manual of Arms” routine on the field with all those authentic sounds the next year.
After CAT was discontinued in 2004, we have no idea what became of those shiny new impressive looking fake rifles.
Oh, what I’d give to OWN one of those FAKE rifles as a souvenir of our happy high school days being REAL toy soldiers.***
POST-SCRIPT: I made it to “CADET Lt. Col. Joel Dizon, Corps S2 (Intelligence Officer)”!
About the Author
The author is a writer and lawyer based in Baguio City, Philippines. Former editor of the Gold Ore and Baguio City Digest, professor of journalism, political science and law at Baguio Colleges Foundation (BCF). He is a photographer and video documentarist. He has a YouTube channel called “Parables and Reason”
About Images: Some of the images used in the articles are from the posts in Atty. Joel Rodriguez Dizon’s Facebook account, and/or Facebook groups and pages he manages or/and member of.