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The Pint-Sized Piloto Mira Rosa Arkangel
December 12, 1941A streak of white light stabbed through the thick darkness like a mad firefly. It was a diwata and her name was Mira Rosa Arkangel. The trees had awoken from their slumber, upon seeing a beautiful and bright fairy making a rare apparition. And they were smitten. Mira had slit eyes like a knife and hued hazel brown. Her skin changed color to light yellow to contrast the darkness around her. What seemed to appear like glass-like butterfly wings that had a curvilinear pattern that matches her dress is her aura emanating behind her. She was donned from head to foot with a bright white Baro’t Saya finely embroidered with flowery patterns, which wove smoothly with the air. Her head was covered with an opaque shawl. When she flew, her aura glowed and sputtered enough energy for a low glide. Earlier that day, Mira was summoned by the great and legendary engkantada, Teresa Emmanuelle Mabini, or Aling Mabini, and was given a task. An assignment from her is always a big deal.
The Pint-Sized Piloto Prologue
Prologue Once upon a supposed time, a pilot has gravely miscalculated the odds of his luck. Flying the skies over Batangas, his banged-up airplane was riddled with bullets. Sputtering smoke, losing fuel and altitude, it was the end of the road for this pilot. His plane was a dead stick. It just wants to give up and crash. An instant before the inevitable, the pilot’s head rang with a cruel thought, You’re not supposed to die today… you have so much stuff to do. It was like a kick to the groin. It was Christmas time. If he wasn’t on this plane, he should’ve been grilling and eating Lechon. He promised his daughter to make her the best-looking paper lantern ever. He should’ve been anywhere but here. But life is a train where no passengers want to get off. And death is always an unscheduled stop. The pilot looked across the shattered glass of his monoplane, a green and brown Boeing P-26 Peashooter, streaking acro
The Pint-Sized Piloto The Piloto
December 5, 1941 Lt. Joaquim Dela Cruz only had one rule in a dogfight: Always check your six-o-clock. Though his aircraft was a lumbering, big barreled monoplane whose engine crackled and spouted like an old man grumping about every time he climbed an altitude, nobody ever got on his tail. For Joaquim had eyes of a hawk and a neck of an owl; habitually gawking his head in various directions. It was supposed to be an occupational hazard, but Joaquim was used to it. After hundreds of hours of flight time, his vertigo has become his friend. Joaquim and two other pilots were on the air, with their marvelous Peashooters, doing their weekly practice drills and some reconnaissance. It was a privilege to fly planes. With the limited budget allotted for this homegrown Air Force, the supply for fuel was limited. Once a week, a gas truck would arrive in Lipa, Batangas, which took another full day to get to the airfield. The
The Pint-Sized Piloto The Bandits
December 8, 1941. Joaquim was already in Batangas airfield with half of the squadron present. At around 7 am, Captain Villamor read a telegram report informing them that Clark airfield picked up a formation of unidentified planes flying over at Central Luzon at high altitudes. The “bogies” streaked through the Philippine air space in a Christmas tree formation. All USAAFE forces were placed on full readiness alert. “At what altitude?” Joaquim asked. “25,000 feet.” “That’s higher than what our anti-aircraft can reach.” “American superiority, my ass,” quipped Lt. Barria. Joaquim and the other pilots prepped up the Peashooters for combat. Boxes of .30 caliber ammunition were brought out and stacked beside the monoplanes, ready to be loaded to their Browning machine guns. Gas tanks were filled. They sat beside their planes ready for take-off notice. A red flag was hoisted up on a flagpole to signal a take-off order. Under the Captain’s ord
The Pint-Sized Piloto Mayday
December 12, 1941 They were losing. Within 48 hours, the 6th Squadron has lost half of its pilots. Lt. Barria and Lt. Jose have crashed and were missing still. The pilots knew the end was near. But Joaquim who had bravely fought off wave after wave of enemy planes had stuck with the promise he made to himself to turn every damn Japs back to where they came from…. By then, he has become a local hero overnight, along with Capt. Villamor. At dinner time, they were celebrated and toasted by Batangenos. They pray for his safety, calling for the saints to spare this crazy, stubborn pilot who never gives up. After days of combat, he was now fighting fatigue. His Peashooter was barely air-worthy. Iron patches had been welded to cover bullet holes. It’s quite a feat that it can still fly. Even more so, it’s incredible its pilot still had the determination to fly in the face of defeat. Another wave of bandits has been spotted approaching from Cavi
The Pint-Sized Piloto The Metamorphosis
Chapter 4 – The Metamorphosis “I wasn’t supposed to die today” was merely a thought—a whisper—Joaquim uttered in that instant when he found himself enveloped in the flames. Followed, of course, by an expletive cursing, which was only a typical expression by those who believe their time isn’t up yet. Regardless of his dire situations, what Joaquim didn’t know was that someone may have heard, maybe someone with magic, or some divine being, who took his whisper as a prayer. Because when death had come, when Joaquim had closed his eyes, he thought he was supposed to see light at the end of the tunnel and all that. Instead, he was whisked off into another and went somewhere else. Sure, as routines in life-after-death stories go, he had flashbacks: He saw his wife on their wedding day; he saw the first time he held his daughter in his hands, and the first time he glanced over his cockpit as he flew a plane and saw the spectacular view of Laguna de Bay
The Pint-Sized Piloto Nineteen Twenty-Four
Anyone interested in stories about fairies and dwarves may find the town of Parola up to their standards. Because see here, in 1924, Parola had a bunch of them. Though the grownups couldn’t see, the children did. Every single day. They were often spotted in open places. Fairies dangled on trees. Dwarves from different colors of different tribes flocked the marketplaces, the farmlands, churches, and barangay posts. Some slept under the huts for a better shade. They were part of nature. And to some extent, they were involved in the various activities of children. Joaquim Dela Cruz spent his childhood in this town and was used to seeing little folks participate in many things that children do. On his first day in Parola elementary school, he spotted dwarves sitting leisurely by the window, watching as the teacher pointed her ruler to the blackboard. The dwarves appeared like gangly children, with a silvery and yellowish hue, and pointed hats and ears, and curling shoes. W
The Pint-Sized Piloto The New Order
Joaquim remembered so vividly when he flew the pigeon past San Martin de Tours church that he had arrived in Taal, but it had turned into the wrong town. It had lost its luster, compared to the last time he was here. That was just days ago, he believed. But as flew about and raced across the town proper, it looked increasingly evident that weeks, or even months, have passed. Because magic is as magic does. It can do anything. If it had turned him into a dwarf, it could certainly push him forward in time. And so, apparently, Christmas had come and gone and surely, when it did, the Japanese broke the festivities and soured the mood. They never celebrate it anyway. More likely, they took down the decorations and the flowers that festooned the plaza last December. Joaquim only spotted a large Japanese flag draped in front of the town hall. The Tokyo men have posted their sentries in various select areas of the town. It was a way to remind ev
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