THE ASSAULT ON PACO STATION — THE STORY OF CLETO RODRIGUEZ AND JOHN REE

At 8:42 a.m. on February 9th, 1945, Private Cleto Rodríguez crouched behind a pile of rubble in Manila. Ahead of him—60 yards across a flat, empty field—300 Japanese Marines were fortifying the Paco Railroad Station.

He was 21 years old.
Six weeks in combat.
Zero medals.
And he was about to change the course of a battle.

The elegant train station had been transformed into a fortress. Machine-gun nests ringed the perimeter. Riflemen dug foxholes around each position. Twenty-millimeter cannons guarded the corners. Inside, a concrete pillbox housed a 37 mm gun and heavy mortars.

Rodríguez belonged to Company B, 148th Infantry Regiment, 37th Infantry Division. His unit had been fighting in Manila for six brutal days, pushing the Japanese back district by district. Paco Station now served as the enemy’s central strongpoint in Plaza Dilao—right in the heart of what had once been a thriving Japanese neighborhood.

The defenders knew every building, every alley, every angle.
Company B had already tried to take Paco Station twice. The first attack cost 11 men. The second cost 14 more.

The reason was obvious: the station sat at the far end of a 100-yard open field—with no cover.

Every assault ended the same way.
Americans advanced.
Japanese guns opened fire.
The attack collapsed.

TWO MEN, TWO BARs, ONE IMPOSSIBLE MISSION

Rodríguez carried a Browning Automatic Rifle—the 19-pound, .30-caliber powerhouse that could empty its 20-round magazine in 2.5 seconds if fired continuously. He had learned to shoot in controlled bursts.

Beside him crouched Private First Class John Reese, 21, a member of the Choctaw Nation from Oklahoma. He carried another BAR. Assigned to the same fire team only weeks earlier, they complemented each other perfectly:

Rodríguez: aggressive, instinctive, bold

Reese: steady, precise, methodical

Their platoon had been pinned down for 40 minutes. The lieutenant debated calling artillery—which would flatten the station but kill civilians still trapped nearby. Manila’s population exceeded 600,000. Thousands remained caught between both armies.

Rodríguez studied the battlefield.
There was no way to cross the open field.
But he spotted a house—60 yards from the station.
Single-story stone construction. Partially intact.

If two men could reach that house, they could create a forward firing position close enough to suppress the station’s guns, disrupt the defenses, and give the platoon a chance to advance.

He looked at Reese.
Reese nodded.

Neither man asked permission.

They simply moved.

THE RUN TO THE HOUSE

They grabbed extra BAR magazines—six each.
Over 300 rounds between them.
Six fragmentation grenades apiece.

And then they sprinted.

Japanese machine guns opened fire immediately. Rounds cracked past their heads. Dirt erupted around their boots. But both men kept running. Thirty yards. Forty. Fifty.

They dove through the shattered doorway of the house.

Inside, they were alone.

Two Americans.
60 yards from 300 Japanese Marines.
And now every gun in the area knew their position.

Rodríguez fought the tremor in his hands.
Slow breaths.
Count to three. Inhale.
Count to three. Exhale.
Steady.

The house was half-destroyed—rubble, broken beams, shattered furniture. A family had once lived here. Now it was nothing but cover.

They positioned themselves at separate windows—always at the edge of the frame, never the center where snipers aimed.

Rodríguez spotted a machine-gun crew adjusting their weapon. Three bursts—two Marines down.
Reese took out the 20 mm cannon crew with equal speed.

The Japanese response was immediate.

Bullets shredded the walls.
Explosive shells hammered the stone exterior.
Dust and splinters filled the air.

But the two riflemen kept moving, firing, shifting positions, refusing to stay still long enough for the enemy to zero in.

BREAKING THE DEFENSE

Rodríguez noticed a group of Japanese troops sprinting from a building behind the station—reinforcements. If they made it to the pillboxes, the defense would harden.

He shouted to Reese.
Both BARs opened fire.

Within seconds, Marines fell across the open ground.
When it was over, more than 40 enemy soldiers lay dead.
The pillboxes remained unmanned.

But the Japanese adjusted.
Mortars rained down.
The roof collapsed.
The house was no longer safe.

Rodríguez and Reese had two options:

Retreat 100 yards back across open ground

Advance 20 yards closer—into “dead space” where mortars couldn’t hit

They chose the second.

They ran.

THE FINAL PUSH—AND THE FINAL COST

The move brought them dangerously close to the station—close enough to see inside the windows. Rodríguez hurled grenades with deadly accuracy. Reese stopped a replacement cannon crew before they could bring the 20 mm gun back online.

But ammunition was running out.

Rodríguez was down to his last magazine.
Reese had one left.
They had been fighting for more than an hour.

Japanese reinforcements appeared suddenly—eight Marines flanking from the left.

Rodríguez aimed—click.
Empty.

Reese pivoted and fired, dropping several attackers—but as he reached for his final magazine, a single rifle shot struck him in the chest.

He collapsed.

Rodríguez sprinted toward him with no weapon, no plan—just instinct. He reloaded Reese’s BAR, fired to cover their position, and realized the truth:

Reese couldn’t move.

Rodríguez couldn’t carry him.

They were about to be surrounded.

Reese looked at him, eyes unfocused, blood spreading across his uniform. And with a final, deliberate gesture, he pushed Rodríguez away.

Go.
Live.

Cold battlefield mathematics.

One could survive.
If both stayed, neither would.

Rodríguez fired one last burst—then ran.

Bullets tore the dirt around him.
He zigzagged, sprinted, stumbled, pushed forward.
Hands grabbed him, pulled him behind cover.

He collapsed among his platoon, shaking, gasping, exhausted.

But the Japanese defenses were shattered.

Company B fixed bayonets and charged.

This time, the Japanese could not stop them.

In 10 minutes, Paco Station fell.

AFTERMATH

Medics carried Reese’s body back with honor.
Rodríguez watched—but could not move.

He had no wounds.
Just shock.
Just the weight of survival.

The battle had lasted 150 minutes…
9,000 seconds…
A lifetime.

When the bodies were counted, 82 Japanese Marines had been killed by Rodríguez and Reese—verified.

Two men.
Against 300.
And they broke the strongpoint that stopped two previous assaults.

Rodríguez barely spoke for three days.
He kept seeing Reese fall.
Kept hearing the rifle shot.
Kept reliving the moment he ran.

THE LEGISLATIVE BUILDING—FEBRUARY 11

Two days later, Company B assaulted the Philippine Legislative Building—another fortress.

Rodríguez volunteered immediately.

He climbed a rubble slope into a ground-floor window.
A grenade blast tore his face open.
He kept moving.

He killed four soldiers at a machine gun, then six more behind a door with a grenade.

For four hours, he led a four-man team through the southeast section, clearing room after room while Company B assaulted from the front.

By 10:00 a.m., the building fell.

Rodríguez was wounded, bleeding, exhausted—but refused evacuation.

THE MEDAL OF HONOR

The company commander recommended Rodríguez for the Medal of Honor based on:

verified body counts

eyewitness statements

after-action reports

On October 12th, 1945, President Harry Truman placed the Medal of Honor around his neck.

Reese received his posthumous Medal of Honor one week later.
His family accepted the award.

Reese had been 21.
Single.
No children.
He had chosen to save the man who had a family waiting at home.

A LIFE AFTER WAR

Rodríguez returned to San Antonio a hero—but he did not feel like one.
He felt like a survivor carrying a burden that never left him.

He married, raised four children, worked for the VA, reenlisted, served in Korea and Vietnam, and retired as a master sergeant in 1970.

In 1990, he died at age 67.
He is buried at Fort Sam Houston National Cemetery.

Reese rests at Fort Gibson National Cemetery in Oklahoma. His grave marker is simple:

“Medal of Honor.
Killed in Action.
Feb 9, 1945.”

He died with no descendants, no one to tell his story except the nation he served.

LEGACY

The Battle of Manila lasted one month:

100,000 civilians killed

16,000 Japanese soldiers killed

1,000 Americans killed

90% of the city destroyed

Paco Station still stands—scarred, partially ruined, a silent witness.

Military historians study the Paco assault as one of the clearest examples of what two determined soldiers can achieve against impossible odds:

Initiative

Surprise

Relentless pressure

Two men took apart a defensive line that held off entire platoons.

But the cost was profound.

Reese paid with his life.
Rodríguez paid with his memories.

This—this is what heroism really costs.

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