Deke had an idea, which he brought up with Honcho. “What if we get the Japs to attack us?”
“Deke, what the hell are you talking about? I’m damn sure they do plan to attack us.” The lieutenant showed a rare flash of irritation, a reminder that the weight of the patrol was on his shoulders.
“Honcho, what I mean is, What if we make them come to us in a banzai charge? When we’re in our foxholes, waiting for them?”
The lieutenant thought about that. “Now you’re making sense. If the Japs come at us in small groups, it’s going to be one hell of a night. Death by a thousand cuts. But if they decide to wipe us all out at once—”
“We can mow them down,” Deke said, finishing the lieutenant’s thought.
Steele nodded. “All right, that’s not a bad plan. Here’s what we’re going to do. Set up our machine guns and a couple of mortars facing down the slope. It’s a damn good field of fire, and it’s steeper than it looks, which will slow them down if they’re trying to run up it. We’ve got that hill at our backs and it’s rugged terrain, so I doubt a large force can come at us from that direction.”
The arrangements were made, and the men soon understood their role. Now all they needed to do was encourage the Japanese to attack. It was Philly who came up with a good idea for that.
“Why don’t we throw a party and invite the Nips?”
“What the hell are you talking about, Philly?”
Quickly, he outlined his idea. “You know I’m from Philadelphia, right? Independence Hall, the Liberty Bell, all that Revolutionary War stuff. Plus, George Washington crossing the Delaware. Remember that Washington and his boys swooped down on the Hessians so easily because it was Christmas Eve and all the Germans were drinking and partying. What if we can convince the Japanese that we’re like the Hessians? Let’s make them think we’re having us a good ol’ time and that we’ll be easy pickings.”
“It’s not Christmas Eve.”
“Do you think the Japanese know that? It was a couple of nights ago, so close enough.”
Slowly, Honcho nodded. “All right, let’s give it a try. We’ve got nothing to lose.”
The men built a large bonfire, throwing caution to the wind. The fire would be big enough to get the attention of any Japanese in the vicinity, if by some miracle they weren’t already aware of the American presence. Once the flames were leaping and the sparks were flying, the men joked in loud voices, shouted “Merry Christmas!” to one another, even sang a few Christmas carols. They did their best to seem like they were also drinking, joking with one another about how good the whiskey was. In reality, they weren’t drinking anything stronger than some metallic-tasting canteen water.
Although the celebration was phony, it was easy enough for the men to get into the spirit of it. A few men quietly served as lookouts, having crept out from the defenses in order to spot any Japanese activity right away. Deke wasn’t much interested in being part of the fake holiday foolishness, but he was glad to be out in the dark, his rifle and knife at the ready.
After midnight, the plan finally seemed to be working. He thought he heard hushed Japanese voices, and even the sound of branches snapping as if a number of enemy troops were positioning themselves in the woods. He hurried back to report what he’d heard to the lieutenant.
“They’re coming, Honcho. No doubt about it.”
“You guys stay near the bonfire and whoop it up,” Honcho said quietly. He also gave an order to bring in the rest of the scouts. “The rest of you get into your foxholes. Hold your fire until I give the order.”
Another hour passed without incident, to the point where Deke wondered if his ears had been playing tricks on him earlier. But then came the sound of the shrill whistles that the Japanese used to signal an attack. They heard shouts and moonlight flashed off a sword blade waved by an officer. It was soon apparent that Philly’s plan had worked all too well. They could hear the Japanese running toward them up the slope, even if they couldn’t see them clearly.
In the blinding darkness, the sound of so many enemy troops rushing toward them, unseen, was terrifying. That all changed when the mortar squad fired a flare that hung above the slope, illuminating the mass of Japanese headed for their position. In the strange, bright, flickering light, the enemy faces looked contorted and enraged, the eyes and screaming mouths nothing more than dark holes under the rim of their helmets. But now, at the very least, they could see the enemy.
“Here they come,” Philly muttered.
“Pick your targets, boys,” Deke said. “One shot, one Jap.”
Fingers on their triggers, they didn’t have to wait long for the order.
“Open fire!” Lieutenant Steele shouted.
The machine guns opened up, tracers racing across the open ground. Swaths of enemy soldiers went down as if they had been yanked on by a rope. The mortar squad added to the havoc, exploding shells knocking holes in the Japanese advance. Thinned out, the enemy kept advancing.
Deke aimed and fired, aimed and fired, each shot taking out another enemy soldier. Nobody shouted orders — there wasn’t any need. Each soldier’s duty was as obvious as the menacing figures rushing toward them. It was kill or be killed.
Speed was the name of the game, each bullet meaning one less Nip who was going to reach his foxhole. On either side of him, soldiers were doing the exact same thing. At this range, nobody was about to miss. He could hear the deep boom of Honcho’s shotgun adding to the hell storm of lead being thrown at the Japanese.
Deke realized that he was too busy to be scared, although anyone in their right mind should have been frightened by the sight of the banzai charge. A few soldiers fumbled their clips when they went to reload their M1s, but Deke’s hands remained steady. Work the bolt, aim, squeeze the trigger, feel the jolt of recoil against his shoulder, fire, repeat. Again and again. It felt as if he had already been doing this his whole life, and might be doing it until the end of time — or at least until a Jap bayoneted him.
“Enemy behind us!” Yoshio shouted.
Deke whipped his rifle around in time to see a small group of Japanese who were almost on top of them. They were all so intent on the charging Japanese that they might have been completely taken by surprise without Yoshio’s warning. He fired at the nearest man. Beside him, Honcho’s shotgun boomed again, followed by the crack of Danilo’s rifle, and then Philly’s. The threat from the rear was neutralized.
There were still plenty of Japs coming up the slope, although the blazing machine guns had done a number on them. But it hadn’t been enough. Now the enemy soldiers were thirty feet away, then ten, then right on top of them.
“Dammit!” Philly shouted.
Deke fired point blank at a screaming Jap racing at them with a bayonet. He went down. There were more right behind him. Deke put down his rifle and reached for the .45 in the belt holster. The weight of the pistol felt good in his hand as he unloaded the fat slugs into enemy soldiers no more than an arm’s length away. When the pistol ran dry, he tossed it aside and reached for his bowie knife just as a Japanese soldier tripped and fell headlong into the foxhole. Deke made short work of him with the knife. Danilo was doing the same with his long-bladed bolo knife, chopping at the Japanese like he was harvesting sugarcane.
In the foxholes all around Deke, similar battles were taking place, each fight a primitive struggle for survival that was as old and familiar as warfare itself. It was blade against bayonet, fist against boot. Worst of all were the sounds as the firing died away, replaced by the noise of close-quarters combat. Grunts and curses filled the night. The very air seemed to crackle with the grating of rifles being used like fighting sticks and clubs. There was the dull ringing of heavy blows against helmets. They heard the horrible wet sounds of a long blade sliding into flesh, followed by the final sigh of air escaping from a lung or rib cage. Screams of rage mixed with the death cries of those who were being stabbed or clubbed.