Saturday, Oct. 5, 1996 | 11:59 a.m.
During World War II, a forlorn Japanese major in occupied Manila lamented to a Filipino restaurateur that he would lose face with his superiors at an upcoming party because he could not dance.
The restaurateur, who unbeknown to the major had strong ties to the resistance forces in the Philippines, said he had a young waiter who was an excellent dancer and would be happy to teach him a few basic steps.
What the major did not know was that the dashing, thin-mustachioed waiter was one half of "Hernandez and Marika," one of the hottest Latin American dance teams in pre-war Chicago night clubs.
Indeed, Al Hernandez and his wife were headliners wherever they appeared in the United States. They had even put on a command performance for President Roosevelt.
But more importantly what the Japanese major did not know was that Hernandez was one of Gen. Douglas MacArthur's top spies in the Far East.
A second lieutenant in the U.S. Army's 5217th Commando Reconnaissance Battalion, Hernandez was there as part of Operation: ISRM ("I Shall Return" -- MacArthur), doing the groundwork for the liberation of his native Philippines.
That job included setting up secret radio stations to report troop movements, engaging in sabotage and, yes, even dancing with Japanese officers -- if it could help the war effort.
"I kept jostling the major as I taught him the box step," said the 87-year-old Hernandez, a 36-year Las Vegas resident who in the 1960s and '70s was the suave host of the Sahara hotel-casino's Don the Beachcomber restaurant.
"I was trying to find the key to his files so we could go through them and see if there was anything Gen. MacArthur could use."
Dancing with the enemy
As the Japanese major and the American spy clumsily waltzed across the restaurant floor, Hernandez picked the enemy officer's pocket and managed to pass the key along to an operative.
The major's vital documents were photographed and delivered that night by submarine to MacArthur's headquarters in Australia.
Those troop counts and other valuable tidbits helped MacArthur prepare for the Oct. 20 invasion of Leyte, the culmination of the "I shall return" promise that a retreating MacArthur had made in the early, dark days of the war in the South Pacific.
As Hernandez ponders the upcoming 52nd anniversary of the so-called D-Day in the South Pacific, which helped pave the way for the atomic bombings of Nagasaki and Hiroshima nearly 10 months later, tears well in his eyes.
"When the Japanese major later learned what had happened, he committed suicide," Hernandez said. "I am not proud or happy about that, but this was war and, in war, you do what you have to do to win.
"After the war, MacArthur called me and thanked me for helping win the war. So, that's how you win a war -- dancing with the enemy?" Hernandez said, wiping tears from his eyes and cheeks.
"I haven't told that story before. The things you keep bottled up inside of you for so many years."
After the war, MacArthur personally awarded the Legion of Merit to Hernandez.
The citation reads: "For outstanding efficiency, sustained bravery and boundless enthusiasm in the performance of highly successful intelligence missions in Manila ... (Hernandez's) accurate reports were instrumental in the expeditious defeat of the Japanese in the Manila area."
A man of adventure
Alfredo Eufronio Guillermo Antonio Ornez de Hernandez describes himself as, first, "an adventurer."
Indeed, he has lived many adventures. In addition to his work as a secret agent, star dancer and restaurant host, Hernandez has produced films, written books, choreographed shows and taught in colleges.
He is revered as a hero on the Filipino island of Mindoro, where a jungle park is named in his honor. He also was once military governor of that island.
Born to a Spanish lawyer-publisher-inventor, Hernandez had a privileged life as a youth, attending the finest schools in the Philippines and in Southern California.
It was in Los Angeles where he forsook his parents' wishes for him to become a statesman. Instead, he went to work in the blossoming Hollywood film industry.
In his 20s, Hernandez was a stage director and film producer. The experience landed him a job producing military instruction films at the start of the war. After the war, he was editor of a monthly Hollywood magazine, "Movie News."
In the mid-1930s, Hernandez met his wife-to-be, Marika, a former Miss Greece who was headlining a stage production in Chicago.
"I was in town with a show that was headed for New York when the money ran out and it closed," Hernandez said. "So, I was stranded with no bookings.
"I was asked to be an advisor on the show Marika was in, and she did not like my suggestions. So, off the bat, we were fighting."
A dance team is born
One night, Hernandez was asked to come on stage during the show, where he and Marika engaged in an impromptu dance challenge, exchanging intricate steps as the crowd cheered them on.
"They asked me to come back and made it part of the show," Hernandez said, noting that his rivalry with Marika soon blossomed into love. "I signed a contract for two weeks and stayed for two years. Then came the war."
Before he was shipped off in 1942, Hernandez married Marika. They celebrated their 54th wedding anniversary this year.
But, how does one go from being a very public dancer to a very private spy?
"The Army felt that with my background I would make a good candidate for intelligence school," Hernandez said. "I then went to espionage school where we learned things like how to kill a person without weapons.
"At that age, I could run and move so fast. Today, I need a cane to walk slowly. It's tough getting old."
Not surprisingly, Hernandez said the stereotyped Hollywood image of a spy and the real thing differ significantly. He didn't dress sharply like James Bond. And, by his choice, he didn't get the pretty girl at the end of the mission.
"We went into our missions in tattered clothes like hoboes," said Hernandez, whose children and grandchildren also are or have been filmmakers. (Alana Lambros, his daughter, produced "Sabrina the Teen Witch," which is currently playing.)
"And, if you wanted to survive, you stayed away from the Mata Haris (women spies -- the namesakes of the famed World War I female agent)."
Risks of Operation: ISRM
By the same token, Hernandez said the Japanese generals had a weakness for the Filipino prostitutes with whom they would routinely share military secrets -- at great length and in much detail.
"Of course, all of those women were working for us," Hernandez said with an impish grin, noting that a lot of unsung people helped the war effort in many and varied ways.
In his biggest mission of the war, Hernandez was transported to the four-month-long Operation: ISRM, aboard the USS Nautilus submarine. He was one of hundreds of Allied agents in the Philippines, gathering vital information at the risk of their lives.
"Your heart would fly out of your chest every time there was a knock at your hotel door because it could have been anyone from the maid wanting to clean your room to the Japanese Army coming to take you away," Hernandez said.
Hernandez's most vivid memories of the war -- at least the ones he does not suppress -- are not of the intricate missions, but of simpler times.
"With all of the bad things that went on, I chose to remember the few good things," he said. "One was waking up each morning at a base in Australia and looking out at the troops doing their drills -- all fighting men ready to go. I was so proud of my men."
Another, was the day he got his commission. Marika attended the ceremony where Hernandez was named tops in his class.
"The commanding officer, who was a fan of ours, asked -- actually, ordered -- us to do the tango. That was my first duty as an officer -- dancing the tango."
After the war, while serving in the Army Reserves, Hernandez became a member of the 6312th Logistical Command at Nellis Air Force Base, where he retired as a major.
The Las Vegas years
By the mid-1960s, many old Chicago restaurateurs had become Las Vegas hotel executives and remembered Hernandez from his stage days. He got several offers to work for them as hosts, one resulting in his long stay at Don the Beachcomber.
In 1961, Hernandez wrote and published "Bahala Na" (Filipino for "Come What May"), an account of his war experiences. He said he had to wait so many years after the war to release the book because many of his wartime missions remained classified throughout the 1950s.
"I talk about these things today, because what we did was secret and, with so few of us left, much of what we (spies) did for the war effort has been forgotten, despite its importance," Hernandez said.
And, he says, much of what is remembered often is distorted -- especially about his boss, MacArthur.
"I do not like it when people say bad things about Gen. MacArthur," Hernandez said. "He was a brilliant man and a born leader. His critics were jealous of him and told lies about him that got printed in the newspapers.
"But, Gen. MacArthur's ideas were his own, and in several places in the Far East he is still regarded as a god."
As for Las Vegas, Hernandez is most impressed with the growth he has seen over the years but is saddened by the widespread violence, especially among Southern Nevada's young people.
Still, he says he prefers to live here than anywhere else on the globe -- most of which he has seen in his many travels, which included a trip to Europe in August.
As for the potential of future wars heightened by these volatile times, Hernandez said he remains ready to serve in an advisory capacity should his country call.
"(Iraqi President) Saddam Hussein is messing around too much," Hernandez said. "Had a man like him been in the area where I was assigned, he would have had trouble (surviving). We don't need people like him in this world."
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