Bonded by flame

WE WERE the finest firefighters of our time. I am talking about fighting mountain and forest fires in Baguio in the 1950s when we were fourth, fifth, and sixthgrade students at Easter School, an elementary school run by the Anglican Episcopal Church.

Easter School lay at the foot of pine tree-studded hills which stretched about five kilometers northward to Trinidad Valley, known then as the Salad Bowl of the Philippines for its vast vegetable farms. Because of the easily ignited resinous sap of pine and the cogon grass which was the primary ground cover, fires frequently threatened the school’s property line. Carelessly thrown cigarettes, lightning, and camp cooking by woodcutters, bird hunters and picnickers were the usual causes of conflagrations. Responding yearround to these turned us into expert firefighters, including my brother John who was one grade below me during that period.

Whenever smoke was sighted on the high horizon, we would rush from our classrooms, not helter-skelter but with discipline and long-practiced direction. The main group sprinted towards the suspected source of the smoke. A smaller group would flank left and the third team to the right. If the fire had begun to spread, the group on the threatened side would look for the best place to clear ground for a fire break. The other team meanwhile would maneuver to the rear to create a similar swath of cleared ground which the fire hopefully could not cross.

We would spade up bushes, shrubs, and grass to make long clearings two meters or wider if we had the time. At other times, it was faster and easier to light counter fires in the path of the oncoming big fire, resulting in a fiery, final dying embrace. We became experts in this technique of fighting fire with fire because it was necessary to gauge correctly wind strength, speed and direction and the point of convergence of the fires. Sudden wind shifts would find us literally eating smoke and ash.

The main fire-facing team attacked with