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.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Deke and Philly struck out on their own, leaving the trail to bushwhack their way across the face of the hill. They could see blue sky above the treetops, but down among the palm fronds the morning remained dark and shadowy, which worked in their favor. The surrounding vegetation was lush, green, and silent, absorbing the sound of them passing through.
Deke put his head down and ran hard up the path, not worrying about stealth at this point. He doubted that there would be enemy troops on this part of the hill. Besides, the earlier that they hit the Japs on the slope, the better.
Lean and hard from years of working on the farm, not to mention boot camp and hard living in the Pacific, Deke maintained a pace that forced Philly and the others to struggle to keep up. Despite the shady surroundings, they were all soon sweating mightily in the tropical heat and humidity.
“You must be in a hurry to get shot,” Philly grumbled.
“Sooner we get there, the better our chances,” Deke replied, and lengthened his stride so that Philly had to struggle even harder to keep up.
Yoshio and the guerrillas accompanied them for part of the way. It was more than a little disconcerting to see Yoshio decked out like a Japanese soldier, right down to the familiar fatigue cap that Jap officers favored. It was nice to see that Yoshio had promoted himself to officer status, Deke thought. Then again, having Yoshio look the part of an officer was part of the subterfuge.
The Filipino guerrillas also wore bits and pieces of Japanese uniforms. They sure as hell wouldn’t pass a parade inspection, but from a distance, it ought to be enough to fool the Japs — at least for a few crucial minutes.
Philly had also taken notice and said, “Yoshio sure looks like a Nip.”
“Yeah, but at least he’s our Nip.”
There remained a language barrier between the Americans and the Filipinos, but Father Francisco had given the guerrillas their instructions that morning. They seemed to understand the mission well enough.
Deke was reassured by the presence of his old pal, Pinstripe. Unlike Philly, the wiry Filipino had no trouble keeping up with Deke, although, after the incident with the Jap sentry, Pinstripe remained wary of him. He kept his fellow guerrillas moving along in Deke’s wake.
Pinstripe also seemed to know a few words of English. When they came to a thick wall of vegetation that blocked their progress, Deke was suddenly aware of a whirring sound and the flash of a blade past his ear. He flinched, taken by surprise by the sight of Pinstripe hacking through the underbrush with his bolo knife, which had a blade at least a foot and a half in length. The other guerrillas followed suit.
“Ándale,” Pinstripe said, wielding the bolo until a kind of doorway opened in the undergrowth, revealing an animal path ahead. “Hurry.”
Deke didn’t need to be told twice, but surged ahead. They were still far enough down the slope that there were trees and jungle scrub to give them cover. The tall palm shrubs reached above their heads, keeping them obscured from any curious eyes above. They moved steadily uphill, rushing to get into position before the second half of the team began their attack on the bunker high above.
“Are we going in the right direction?” Philly asked, gasping for breath.