Dawn’s gray light filtered ever so slowly down through the jungle canopy. None of the men had expected to sleep well, given their surroundings, but exhaustion was a tremendous soporific. The soldiers of Patrol Easy awoke with new energy, along with apprehension, knowing that the operation to attack the Japanese bunker and destroy the enemy battery was about to begin.
To his surprise, Deke awoke feeling more or less himself. The worst of it was his right hand, which ached from having gripped the rifle all night in his sleep. He shook it out and accepted half a tropical chocolate bar that Philly handed him, saying, “Breakfast.”
“Where’s my biscuits and white gravy at?” Deke asked.
“Ugh. That sounds like something they’d feed to inmates at the Eastern State Penitentiary. As punishment, you know. I’ll never understand you hillbillies.”
“No reason to get sore. I’ll settle for some grits and scrapple for breakfast.”
“Aw, shut up and eat your damn C rations.”
Grinning, Deke did just that, washing the chow down with a few swigs of water. It wasn’t much of a breakfast, but at least it was something. The warm water tasted strongly of metal from the canteen and halazone tablets. He wouldn’t have minded a hot mug of coffee, just to chase the cobwebs out of his brain.
The Filipino guerrillas in the clearing were also having their version of breakfast, something called bilo bilo, which were basically rice balls cooked in coconut milk. It looked a whole lot better than what Deke had just eaten.
They had started small fires just for the purpose of making breakfast. The fires were so circumspect that Deke could have held them in one hand — just big enough to heat a small amount of water or coconut milk. Deke found himself impressed. It was just the sort of fire a sly woodsy back home would have built to cook a rabbit but stay hidden from revenuers — or Indians in the olden days.
The guerrillas were skilled in jungle-craft and they knew to use dry, sap-free wood so that their fires scarcely made any smoke that would have given away their position to Japanese patrols — or aircraft. To Deke’s surprise, they also brewed coffee, and Deke gratefully accepted a tin cup of java, gulping it down while it was still too hot.
Each Filipino ate a handful of the rice balls between double-checking his equipment. With their short pants, rope-soled sandals, and ragged shirts, they hardly resembled soldiers. Considering that a few women and even a couple of children had joined them for the night, there was a family aspect of the guerrilla unit that was generally lacking in most military camps.
However, there was no mistaking that these were soldiers, all the same. The guerrillas all handled their rifles with easy familiarity, and their weapons gleamed from the care that they’d been given. Several of the Filipinos also wore bare-bladed bolo knives that swung from their belts. The bolo knives with their curved blades were meant to hack their way through the underbrush. If it came down to it, those would be savage weapons in close-quarters fighting.
The Japs might have their swords, but Deke shuddered at the thought of facing a swinging bolo. Some of the Filipinos also carried a short, wickedly curved knife known as a kris. Nope, definitely not the sort of knife he would want to go up against. With their captured Japanese rifles, bolo knives, and kris blades, these Filipino guerrillas were armed to the teeth.
It was no wonder that the Japanese had gained true control of only the more urban areas. In the more remote provinces, the Japanese remained under constant threat of attack — and often retaliated or took out their frustrations on the helpless civilian population in the towns and small villages.
Deke looked around, noting that the only one who hadn’t seemed to sleep was Lieutenant Steele. The ring of cigarette butts surrounding the spot where he’d spent the night on a tree stump indicated that he’d been awake most of the night, keeping watch, and probably planning out in minute detail exactly what had to happen in the morning. It was just what good officers did. Deke shook his head, filled with new admiration for the lieutenant. Didn’t the man ever sleep?
The other man who hadn’t seemed to sleep was the priest. He’d already been up and moving before anyone else. He seemed to have many small tasks to do while the Filipinos slept. Eventually, one of the older Filipinos — the one wearing the pinstriped shirt, who seemed to have a leadership position in the guerrilla band — went around waking the others by nudging them with his sandaled foot. The priest found time to visit with each small group of guerrillas around the cooking fires. He prayed with some quietly, or simply gave their shoulders a quick squeeze of encouragement.
Breakfast eaten, they were soon up and on their feet, but they weren’t quite ready to set out yet. Apparently, the individual prayers were not enough, because the guerrillas gathered around to pray as a group.
The lieutenant shifted the shotgun to his shoulder and watched impatiently as the Filipinos bent their heads. Quietly, Father Francisco spoke a prayer. Deke wasn’t really the praying type, but he noticed that the marines, along with Rodeo, Alphabet, and Yoshio, all bowed their heads. The priest added a few words in English for the benefit of the Americans, praying for a successful mission and their safe return.
When he had finished, the priest nodded at the lieutenant.
“All right, let’s move out, Padre,” Steele said. “Keep it quiet. There’s no telling if the Japs have any sentries, but I’m willing to bet that they do. Deke, I want you up front.”
The Filipino guerrilla who had been wearing the tattered pinstripe shirt yesterday led the way, which made sense considering that he knew the territory, while Deke was just behind him. He didn’t know the guerrilla’s name, but in his mind Deke had nicknamed him “Pinstripe.” This morning he had put on a Japanese fatigue jacket over the shirt, but the contrasting collar was still visible. The rest of Patrol Easy followed Pinstripe and Deke, with the guerrillas and Father Francisco next. Thanks to the soft forest floor underfoot, they managed to make very little noise.
Pinstripe picked his way quietly through the thick underbrush, and they soon reached the “back door” trail that would take them up the hill. This was the trail used to bring supplies up the far side of the hill — the opposite of the beach side, where the Japanese expected an attack.
Deke hoped that they didn’t encounter any supply trains coming up the hill that morning — it was the last thing they would need. So much of the plan depended on surprise, and a single rifle shot or warning shout would upset all their plans.
In the gloom, Deke saw the Filipino ahead of him halt and go into a crouch. He did the same, wondering what the guerrilla soldier had seen. Considering that it was still nearly dark, the man must have had eyes like a panther.
That was when Deke spotted the sentry, keeping watch over the trail. He stood near a post that had a covered box on it, and Deke realized that this was probably a telephone with a line directly to Jap headquarters. Maybe this was a back door, but the Japanese hadn’t left it completely unprotected. Once again, it was a good reminder that the Japanese should never be underestimated. I wonder what other surprises they’ve got for us.
Pinstripe raised his rifle as if he was about to shoot the Jap sentry, but Deke moved forward and touched the man on the shoulder. Now that he had the guerrilla’s attention, Deke shook his head at him. No. The last thing that they needed was a rifle shot that would alert every Jap on the hill that something was happening. Their plan of attack would have gone out the window before it had barely begun.
Shooting him wasn’t an option, but the sentry had to be eliminated if the rest of the patrol was to get past him.
He could have waited for Lieutenant Steele to catch up, so that Deke could ask him what to do, but the more time that elapsed, the greater the odds that the sentry might hear something. If he picked up that phone and warned the rest of the Japanese, the gig was up.
Deke made a decision, even if he didn’t like it. He handed his rifle to the Filipino and whispered, “Hold this.” Even though the guerrilla couldn’t understand the words, good ol’ Pinstripe seemed to get the meaning. He gave Deke a quick nod.
Deke drew his knife. The blade of the drop-point bowie knife made for him by Hollis Bailey at his mountain forge was razor sharp. The Filipino raised his eyebrows in admiration. Sure, the guerrillas had some wicked blades, but there was no doubt that a bowie knife meant business. Silently, Deke crept forward, the knife held in one hand.
He could see the Japanese sentry in the predawn gloom, the man’s lighter-colored uniform showing against the darkness of the surrounding vegetation. The Jap’s rifle was slung over one shoulder, and the man did not appear particularly alert. There was a kind of padded covering on his helmet that must have been intended as some sort of camouflage.
So far the sentry hadn’t spotted him, but for how long would his luck hold out? Deke didn’t like the idea of what was coming next, but he had to do it — and fast.
Deke gripped the knife tightly, his hand sweaty on the antler grip. On the farm and in the fields, he had helped butcher pigs and put wounded deer out of their misery. He was no stranger to ending life. But this was different.
Sure, they had gone over this kind of thing in training — how to kill a man with a knife — but to actually do it was something else altogether. He had killed the enemy before, but always with his rifle. The exception had been the Japanese soldier that he had stabbed with a bayonet on Guam. Then again, that soldier had just shot Ben, his friend from training. His reaction had been one of rage, not cold-blooded murder.
This was just another soldier, doing his duty. Maybe this wasn’t necessary. Maybe they could try to slip past the man — or overpower him and tie him up.
But deep down, Deke knew there was no hope of that. One shout from the sentry, one gunshot, and their whole plan of attack would be in the wind.
He would have liked to work his way behind the sentry. After all, Deke could move as quietly as a fox when he wanted to. Even quieter — back home, he had been known to sneak up on a fox or two while hunting. But he also didn’t want to push his luck. He really didn’t have time to circle around the sentry, so he would have to come at him head-on. It was risky, to say the least. Anything could go wrong.
Deke crouched in the brush at the edge of the trail, no more than ten feet away. He was directly in front of the sentry. The trail opened up in front of him, and there was no more cover between him and the sentry.
Now or never.
Deke jumped up and covered the distance to the sentry in two quick bounds, holding the knife high.
The Jap went wide eyed at the soldier who had materialized out of the jungle. In a panic, he groped at the rifle strap over his shoulder. The Jap opened his mouth to shout something.
Deke never gave him the chance. He jammed his left hand over the sentry’s mouth. He felt the man’s hot breath and the words trying to form — or perhaps not words at all, but only a scream. He shoved the Jap right up against the sentry’s call box. He pressed harder against the soldier’s mouth to keep the man silent. Above Deke’s hand, he got a glimpse of the soldier’s eyes, wide with terror. With his right hand, he stabbed the point of the bowie knife into the base of the sentry’s throat.
For a split second, the blade seemed to get hung up on something, maybe the collar of the sentry’s uniform, or maybe the cartilage of the other man’s larynx, but then the point slid home.
It was like plunging a knife into a raw roast. There was even the same sound of the blade going deep into wet meat. Deke twisted the knife free and rammed it home again, wrenching it back and forth viciously as he did so. In training, the instructors always acted like death was instantaneous for the enemy, that they went quietly to sleep, but that wasn’t the case here. The sentry thrashed and strained, but Deke pinned him in place against the telephone post, keeping his hand pressed tight to seal in the man’s screams.
Finally, Deke started to feel the deadweight of the sentry sliding down the post. He pulled out the knife and let the body slump to the ground. The dying Jap made an awful croaking sound, like a bullfrog when you cut off its legs for the frying pan. The sentry’s eyes stayed open, even after his hands no longer clawed at his ruined throat. Deke gave the body a push so that the dying Jap fell clear of the phone box.
Under normal circumstances, Deke knew that he would have been horrified by what he had just done, but he didn’t allow himself any time to process those thoughts. Some part of him realized that he’d been as savage to the Jap as that bear had been to him all those years ago. But what choice did he have? If they didn’t keep moving, he and the rest of the raiders were going to end up as dead as that sentry.
Quickly, he wiped the knife blade on the sentry’s uniform and returned to the Filipino guide, who was staring at him — and no wonder, because Deke’s face and shirt were now streaked with the enemy soldier’s blood. Pinstripe shifted away, putting some distance between them. Deke had taken it for granted that the guerrillas did this sort of killing on a daily basis, but maybe not.
He took his rifle back and whispered, “What are you lookin’ at? Get going.” He gave the man an angry shove in the direction that would take them up the hill. “Go!”
Soon the rest of the patrol came rushing up the supply path. No one gave the dead sentry a second glance, aside from Father Francisco, who briefly knelt beside the body and made the sign of the cross before moving on.
“You mean that Japs have souls? Coulda fooled me,” Philly said. “Jesus, did you just kill that Jap?”
“I reckon I did.”
“No wonder you’re covered in blood. Looks like you just about sawed his head off.”
“Go to hell, Philly.”
Deke picked up his rifle and resumed his place at the head of the column. They didn’t encounter any more sentries, which was just fine with Deke. He was in no hurry for a repeat performance of what he had been forced to do with his knife to keep the patrol from being discovered. Lucky for them, the Japanese didn’t seem to be expecting any trouble from this direction.
Once they were halfway up the hill, Honcho called a halt.
“This is where we split up,” he said. “Yoshio, you go with the Filipinos to create that diversion. Make some noise, son. You know the old saying — you’ve got to break a few eggs to make an omelet. Deke, you and Philly see if you can pin those Japs down once Yoshio hits them. Remember, take out any officers that you can see. The rest of us are going to ram a big fat bomb down the Japs’ throats — or die trying, anyhow.”
“You got it, Honcho.”
The lieutenant hesitated. He seemed to understand that this might be the last time that he would see any of them alive. “I wish I didn’t have to ask you to do any of this, fellas, I really do, but we’ve got no choice. We’ve got to get this done if the landing is going to succeed. Otherwise, if those big guns are still in place, thousands more of our boys could die.”
Nobody said anything, but the soldiers nodded grimly as Lieutenant Steele met their gaze. They knew the stakes. They knew what they were being asked to do.
“All right,” Steele said after a moment. “If any of us make it out, the rendezvous is that clearing where we spent the night. Father Francisco will look after you until the cavalry arrives on that beach.”
Orders given, they moved out into the brightening day, wondering if it would be their last day on earth. Here in the Pacific War, that was starting to be a familiar feeling.