Personal Histories of World War II in the Marianas

This series is presented by the CNMI Museum of History and Culture for the 60th Anniversary Commemoration of the Battles for Saipan and Tinian. This is the final segment of a three-part account by Sister Maria Angelica Salaberria, M.M.B. [Mercedarian Missionaries of Berriz], who served the people of Saipan from 1934 to 1949, and again from 1967 to 1971.

A MISSIONARY’S STORY

There were many caves on the ranch, all filled with Chamorro people. Nevertheless, we managed to find one large enough for the seven of us, although we could not stand, only sit or lie down. Father Tardio and Brother Oroquieta found another one large enough for them and the youth who accompanied them. As soon as we were settled, Remedios went to all the caves seeking a nurse and found a very good one, one of our former students. Through her, we located a wounded Japanese officer who had medicines with which to treat himself and who provided some good ones for the infections in my wounds. With this help, the infections disappeared before we crossed to the American lines eight days later.

Once we had medications and were well cared for by the nurse, we needed to find a way to change my clothes, which, after eight days, were tattered and soaked with blood. But how? Once again, Remedios went from cave to cave, asking for clothes. She brought me a short-sleeved, flower-printed blouse, and a flower-printed skirt with vivid colors and a 2-meter-long train in the style typically worn by the Filipino and Chamorro women. Imagine what I looked like, in a skirt with a train, a short-sleeved shirt, and a nun’s wimple and veil. Now came the problem of washing my clothes. Remedios remembered a small creek nearby and asked the Japanese officer to accompany her, and at 2:30 in the morning they went to wash my clothes, or rather, to dip them into the water. Do you realize what Remedios meant to us? Thanks to her we found food at Marpi, where she could move about at night. She tried to find water nearby to quench our thirst, and throughout the entire war, never ceased her efforts to obtain, within the range of possibility, whatever would alleviate our predicament.

During our eight days in the cave we could hear the battle raging, the continuous gunfire getting closer by the day, making us realize the Americans were very near. Thirst was one of the greatest hardships we faced during the month we crisscrossed the hills and jungles from south to north. There was no rain, and we could not move about during the daytime. Whenever she could, Remedios would go out at night with a bottle, looking for a creek or a well whose water was more or less clean; then Mother Superior would dole it out, a little in the morning, a little at noon, and a little in the evening. When we were forced to walk at night, Remedios would go into the sugar cane fields and bring each of us a piece of sugar cane to chew as we walked, and it helped. At the end of a month of insufficient liquid, our throats were so parched that there were days when we could not swallow our food.

On the morning of 8 July, when we were thirstier than ever, we began to hear constant gunfire close by, and we were convinced the Americans were practically on top of us. At this point an elderly Chamorro arrived at the cave, shouting “Sisters, come. Now! Follow me!” He took us along a path through the bushes. After circling around we came upon the American lines, in the middle of the battlefield. I was dying of thirst, and the first thing I said was, “Water, please!” One of the soldiers who was busy firing at the enemy heard my cry, stopped firing, turned, and offered me the water canteen dangling at his belt. When I remember his act, I feel both shame and gratitude: I could think only of my thirst, and the young man, in imminent danger of death, turned immediately to help me.

At this point the Catholic chaplain was in the middle of the battle, attending to the dead and wounded. As soon as he could, he came to greet and bless us. He was unable to finish; he was so moved a lump came to his throat and tears streamed down his cheeks. This was not so strange because, as we learned later, the first question asked by the local groups captured by the Americans was, “What about the missionaries? Where are our missionaries? What has become of our missionaries?” This concern for their missionaries, coming from all of them, impressed the Americans deeply. This was how they learned there were missionaries on the island, that we were held prisoner, that the Japanese tried to kill us, etc. This happened during the first 15 days. Some days, they had an idea where we were because local people would tell them, “Yesterday we saw them in Tapochau; the day before they were in Talofofo,” etc. It was at that time that several priests (among them the one who greeted us on the battlefield), together with some Catholic soldiers, made midnight forays into the Japanese-held area, endangering their lives, but could not find us. This accounted for the unrestrained emotion of the chaplain who received us: we were believed to be dead.

At this point we were led to a hill about a half kilometer from the battlefield where a group of about 30 soldiers were resting, waiting to relieve others returning from the battlefield. Several were of Mexican origin and spoke perfect Spanish. While we were talking with them a young lieutenant of Italian descent, who also knew Spanish, approached. He was Lt. Gadnier. He introduced us to a young Japanese girl, seven or eight years old, dressed in a beautiful kimono. The lieutenant told us, “This girl saw her parents commit suicide this morning, and we have kept her with us. Would you like to be responsible for her?” You can imagine how happy we were with this proposal. How could we not take in a young war orphan whom we could lead to become a daughter of God? The little girl’s face reflected the panic that prevented her from speaking, and we were unable to encourage her to utter a word. She was petrified. She carried a woman’s pocketbook with all the family documents: the name of her parents, where they lived, their possessions, etc.

In mid-afternoon, those of us who had been captured that day were loaded aboard a huge truck and driven to the concentration camp [Camp Susupe] set up on the south side of the island, some twelve miles away. We were impressed to be riding on roads completely new to us, built by the Americans as they gained control, section by section, of the island. In Camp Susupe about 3,000 local people had been gathered. In the morning they had been notified by radio that the missionaries were alive and had crossed over to the American lines. I cannot describe the joy and jubilation of these people when we arrived at the camp. All 3,000 awaited us, waving handkerchiefs, greeting us with shouts, many crying for joy, and we, containing our emotions, surveyed the multitude from the heights of the huge truck. All I could think to say was, “Lord, this is the triumph of Your Church. Thank you, Lord!”

The people were housed in two canvas tents. The following morning, the doctor came to examine us and found many things to treat in addition to my wound: anemia, vermin, as well as gallstones. All these conditions were the consequence of the food and dirty water we had been drinking for more than a month. With the resources available to them, the American doctors took very good care of us and we recovered our health relatively soon.

Four days after we arrived at the camp, the war in Saipan ended and Lt. Gadnier came to visit us. He inquired about the little girl, and we explained that we had not been able to keep her because when we arrived, the officer in charge of orphans told us that she would have to go to the Japanese camp to be included on the list of orphans, and that within a few days we could arrange for her adoption if we so desired. We also told him that we had found a young childless couple who were good Christians and wished to adopt the little girl. At this point, Mercedes Gonzalez asked Lt. Gadnier what his mother’s name was. The young man took out a small piece of paper and wrote “Antonetta.” Mercedes told him, “We hope this girl will become a Christian someday, since she is going to live with a Christian family. The day she is baptized, we will name her “Antonetta.” This made the young man very happy and he said goodbye, saying he had to return to the battle on Tinian, an island very close to Saipan, and that he would return to visit as soon as the battle ended. God had other plans, however, because Gadnier died in the battle. We wrote to his mother, telling her that on two occasions we had seen her son performing good deeds, and we sent her the little piece of paper on which he had written her name—probably the last thing he wrote.

Meanwhile, the Ameriocans had begun to distribute the orphans among the native families wishing to adopt them, but the Japanese judge in the Japanese compound protested, stating there was a law forbidding them from giving their children to local families for adoption. The Americans respected their law and recovered all the children given for adoption. We never saw our future “Antonetta,” but there was another orphaned girl whose name was not on the list of orphans because a native family had taken her in when her parents died. She was somewhat older, about ten years old. After being properly instructed, this girl was baptized and given the name “Antonetta.” Today she is a Mercedarian Missionary of Berriz.

When the war ended, the withdrawal of the troops began and lasted several months. It was not easy to move the thousands of men spread across the Pacific. If I remember correctly, the total withdrawal was not completed until February 1946. We, the inhabitants of Saipan, continued to be confined in Camp Susupe until 4 July 1946, the U.S. Independence Day. All of us, missionaries and local people, were cared for and fed by the powerful U.S.A. While awaiting their withdrawal, the Catholic military men got together to build a large wooden house for us. There was a ground floor, a first floor, and a central courtyard, and it stood where our cement house in Chalan Kanoa stands today.

At this point I cannot help asking myself, “Can our intellects ever comprehend the magnitude of the gifts of protection, love, gentleness, and tenderness that God, Our Father, showered on us during that time of war? Can we ever find words to adequately express our thanks?” I cannot; I can only say, “I shall forever praise the loving-kindness of the Lord. Thank you, Father!”

Excerpted from A Time of Agony: Saipan, 1944, by Sister Maria Angelica Salaberria, M.M.B. Translated and edited by Marjorie G. Driver and Omaira Brunal-Perry. MARC Educational Series No. 19. Published in 1994 by the Division of Historic Preservation, CNMI Department of Community and Cultural Affairs, and the Micronesian Area Research Center, University of Guam. Used by permission.