The wrecked vehicle was a reminder that the fighting had become a war of attrition. The loss of each ship, each plane, each tank, each truck, each soldier, was felt keenly as the American forces slowly wore down the Japanese. It wasn’t easy, given a supply line that stretched clear across the Pacific, but the Americans could eventually replace what was lost, while the Japanese could not.
Even so, the enemy didn’t have the good sense to surrender, so there was no choice but to keep fighting.
The combat on Leyte had certainly taken its toll on Patrol Easy. It turned out that Patrol Easy wasn’t going to stay undermanned for long. They’d been assigned a dozen new men, some of them combat veterans who had been separated from their units for one reason or another, and others support staff who’d made the mistake of saying they wanted to get into the fight. Given the losses in the Philippines so far, division command was happy to oblige them.
Now those men were gathered around Lieutenant Steele in the shade of an immense balete tree that grew beside the road. Impatiently, Steele motioned for Deke and Philly to join them. While the Americans sat on the ground, Danilo squatted on his haunches in true Filipino fashion.
Danilo’s dark, watchful eyes studied the branches of the balete tree with trepidation, but it wasn’t enemy snipers he was looking for. Balete trees grew to be even more massive than this one, with some centuries old. There were more than a few local legends of these balete trees being inhabited by the spirits of the dead. When the breeze stirred the leaves, making them dance as if with a mind of their own, it was easy to understand why some believed the trees to be haunted.
Before speaking, Steele took a moment to look around at the men, his gaze settling briefly on each man as if taking his measure before moving on. By the time he finally spoke, he had their full attention.
“A lot of you are probably wondering what’s next,” Steele began. “Well, our strategy is straightforward, boys. When you see the enemy, shoot him.”
That comment brought a murmur of approval and even some laughter. However, the lieutenant’s face didn’t show any traces of humor.
“It’s kind of like getting rid of rats,” Philly said. “Except these rats can shoot back.”
“The more of them we kill, the fewer there are to shoot back,” Steele pointed out. “It’s that simple, boys. We go where they send us, and we shoot Japs.”
“C’mon, Lieutenant, haven’t we done enough?” Philly wanted to know. “We haven’t even had our Christmas dinner yet — unless rumors are the only thing being served up.”
“Keep talking, Philly, and the only thing you’re gonna get is some cold C rations and no can opener except your bayonet.”
That response made some of the new men snicker. Patrol Easy made up the core of the undersized platoon Steele had been put in charge of since before the ambush on the convoy. Officers were in short supply. The others clammed up when Deke glared at them. Some of them met his eyes, then quickly looked away. With his gray eyes and the deep scars on one side of his face, Deke had that effect on people.
Philly muttered something under his breath, then fell silent. With another officer, Philly would likely have earned himself a chewing-out with his smart-aleck comments, but Steele put up with him. The lieutenant was used to it, and he knew that when push came to shove, Philly was a good soldier, so he gave him some leeway.
Steele went on to confirm what the gathered men already suspected, which was that Japanese forces had scattered into the hills, but they had not given up. In some places, entire regiments were still holding out, remaining a thorn in the side of the U.S Army’s advance. However, most of the enemy had been reduced to smaller units or even handfuls of determined men. That was old news to Deke.
As long as there’s one enemy soldier out there with a sharp stick, he’ll be fighting us, Deke thought. He knew from experience that most of the Japanese were armed with far more than sharp sticks.
“One more thing,” Steele said. “I want to introduce our acting sergeant, Deacon Cole. Some of you new guys don’t know him, but he’s the hillbilly over there with the pretty face. What he says is as good as what I say.”
Deke looked up in surprise.
Philly nudged him with an elbow and muttered. “There you go, Deke. Merry freakin’ Christmas, Sergeant.”
Steele wrapped up, although Deke’s head was spinning so that he barely heard the rest. They’d be moving out again in the morning.
One of the new men approach him. “Deacon, huh? You’re not some kind of religious fella, are you?”
Philly answered for him. “He’s especially good at funerals. He’ll be glad to say a few words when we bury you, buddy.”
That shut the new guy up, and he suddenly took an intense interest in his boot laces.
Meanwhile, Steele had another surprise in addition to Deke’s promotion. It turned out that they really were having a Christmas dinner, even if it was a day late.
The decision to serve a traditional Christmas dinner on December 26, rather than on the holiday itself, had been made quite deliberately by General Bruce, commander of the 77th Infantry Division. Throughout the Pacific, similar decisions had been made to align with the time difference. Their dinner would coincide with what was actually Christmas Day in the continental United States. Across the thousands of miles of ocean, the troops would be celebrating Christmas at the same time as folks back home. It was an important real-time connection that had nothing to do with dates on a calendar.
A makeshift mess hall had been erected, and cooks were at work preparing the meal. There were no tables — each man had to sit on the ground to eat — and everyone kept his rifle within reach. That was OK, considering the wonderful smells that greeted them.
Steele explained that the supplies for their holiday meal had come from an air drop. Again, it was a testimonial to the miracle of the American supply line juggernaut that the troops on Leyte were soon eating roasted turkey, glazed ham, real mashed potatoes, stuffing, and canned string beans. Each man got a slice of apple pie made with canned apples. The boys had even been allotted one beer each to wash it all down, or all the fresh coffee they wanted. The nondrinkers did quite well trading their beer for extra pie.
“Can you believe this, fellas?” Philly asked in wonder, balancing a heavily laden plate on his knees as he settled onto the ground. “It sure as hell beats canned lima beans and ham.”
Philly was referring to the least favorite “flavor” of C ration. More than one man would return from the Pacific vowing to never allow a lima bean anywhere near his plate.
“It’s sure somethin’,” Deke agreed. His belly growled at the sight, but staring down at the plate, he felt overwhelmed. The mess crew had loaded his plate with more food than he could eat. Their stomachs had all shrunk after weeks and months of living on so little. Philly hadn’t been far wrong when he had kidded Deke about being able to find shade under a blade of grass. Deke was now as lean as a bayonet, and just as sharp and hard.
He took a mouthful of mashed potatoes swimming in butter, closing his eyes as the taste took him back home to better times, before they had lost his family’s mountain home to greedy bankers, when they had still been a family. His father had died in an accident at the sawmill where he’d been working in an attempt to keep the family farm from going under. His mother had died not long after that, most likely of a broken heart and broken dreams. Now it was just he and his sister, Sadie, who was a female police officer in Washington, DC.