But he didn’t have time. Another danger had appeared.
A figure emerged from behind Sergeant Inaba, looming out of the drifting dust and debris left by the grenade blast. It was Major Tanigawa himself, armed with his double rifle. He was leading a handful of troops toward the fight.
Where the hell had he come from with those other troops? Deke wanted to kick himself for not spotting the major earlier — and those reinforcements.
They were so close that Deke got a glimpse of Tanigawa’s eyes, glittering like wet basalt in his dusty face, as the man glared at them from his position in the moonscape of the ruined city square.
Though meant for hunting big game, Tanigawa’s rifle was more than adequate for a combat role. Tanigawa’s rifle fired twice, the two shots so quick that they were almost one. Near Deke, one of the Filipino snipers cried out and went down.
Just when it seemed like Tanigawa had gained the upper hand with his powerful rifle, Juana appeared out of nowhere and threw a grenade at him. The explosion shook the ground as Tanigawa was thrown off balance. His fancy rifle went flying, and the major fell to his knees before throwing himself onto the ground as more shots whipped over his head.
Taking advantage of this opening, Deke aimed carefully and prepared to fire a shot at Tanigawa. Deke’s heart pounded, the sound of gunfire and explosions echoing in his ears. The Japanese were advancing quickly, their relentless attacks threatening to overwhelm the small US patrol. A bullet snapped past his ear, forcing him to flinch. By the time Deke was ready again, Tanigawa was scurrying away with his rifle, getting under cover.
It was hard to say how long the savage fight lasted. Time seemed to slow down as shots were exchanged no more than a few paces apart, stabs of flame from the muzzle flashes cutting through the dust left by the grenade explosions. Another one of the guerrillas fell, but Deke was only vaguely aware of that from the corner of one eye. All his attention was focused on the Japanese.
Bullets ricocheted off walls and debris as fighters on both sides dodged and weaved to avoid being hit, leaping for cover and diving behind chunks of stone or sections of brick still clumped together with mortar. Close as the fighting was, they never reached the point of hand-to-hand combat. They were fighting a brawl; it was the gunfight at the OK Corral all over again, bullets flying, every man for himself.
Deke had a glimpse of Captain Oatmire, helmet gone, sweaty hair plastered to his head, firing his .45 at the Japanese.
Just as quickly as they had appeared out of the dust and smoke, the Japanese faded away to regroup. There were more than before — Deke could see them gathering for a counterattack, more of the enemy clad in their brownish uniforms streaming from the legislative building. Several dead men were similarly clad, but the enemy hadn’t gotten the message.
“These Japs just won’t quit,” Philly complained, taking cover behind a pile of rubble. “It’s like they don’t care how many men they lose.”
“Same old story,” Deke replied grimly, aiming and firing again at the distant targets, all the while keeping his eyes open for Tanigawa or Inaba. At that moment they were nowhere to be seen. He was beginning to think that they were more like ghosts or phantoms than men, seeming to appear or disappear at will. “When did the Japanese ever care about that? All they care about is winning at any cost. It doesn’t matter how many of them die.”
Deke became aware of the pain in his arm and glanced down at the wound, noticing that blood was running down his arm. He didn’t find much relief in the fact that it was a trickle rather than a torrent. Along with the pain, an awareness that the blood was leaking out of him hit him hard. A sudden wave of weakness nearly caused him to drop his rifle, and he stumbled.
Philly looked at him with concern. He reached out to steady Deke. “Dammit, you’re hit.”
“It’s nothin’,” Deke responded, shrugging off Philly’s hand. There was no rear to go to, anyhow, no medics to call for help. His only choice was to keep fighting. He cursed under his breath but pushed through the pain and moved forward with his rifle again.
The brief respite did not last long, no more than a few minutes. The window for retreat narrowed and then closed. More Japanese troops streamed from the legislative building, coming to renew the attack. Deke got off a couple of shots at them, dropping one man and missing another due to his weakened arm, but the enemy troops were multiplying like ants. It was clear that Patrol Easy would be outnumbered.
“There’s too many of the bastards!” Philly shouted over the chaotic sound of gunfire. “We need to get out of here.”
"Dammit," Deke muttered. He hated to give an inch of ground to the enemy, but he knew that Philly was right.
More Japanese soldiers poured out from the ruins of the buildings, making it clear that they were outnumbered and outgunned. Deke kept shooting, taking down as many enemies as he could, but Philly was right — they couldn’t keep this up forever.
Lieutenant Steele seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion. “We need to fall back!” he shouted.
One by one the GIs and Filipino guerrillas began to peel away and return to the alley, which turned out to be their best escape route, giving them cover from the Japanese onslaught. First, they had to pass the bodies of the dead enemy that had been torn by the grenades, then climb the tumbled brick wall, all the while coming under direct enemy fire. Bullet strikes raised puffs of brick dust the color of blood. One of the Filipino fighters was dead, and they left his body behind. Juana and Rodeo were on either side of the wounded Filipino fighter, half carrying and half pushing him up and over the rubble wall.
Soon only the lieutenant and Deke were remaining. The Japanese kept coming, bullets flying at them as the enemy fire increased.
Two of the enemy got close enough to launch their own version of a banzai charge, howling with rage as they screamed toward the two Americans. They were so close that Deke could see how their faces were twisted into contorted, angry masks.
Deke shot one. Beside him, Honcho’s 12-gauge boomed and the second attacker flew back as a handful of buckshot hit him.
There were more Japanese coming behind them. Honcho racked another shell into the chamber and fired.
The enemy continued their advance relentlessly, firing indiscriminately. The zip of Japanese lead cut through the air. Deke hunkered down behind debris and tried to steady his breathing as he took aim at an approaching soldier. He squeezed the trigger just as a nearby explosion rocked the ground beneath him. The damn Japs had thrown a grenade.
His shot went wide, the bullet whizzing past the Japanese soldier’s head.
Honcho grabbed Deke’s shoulder and shoved him toward the wall.
“Deke! We need to get out of here!”
Finally, with a heavy heart, Deke turned and started scrambling up the brick wall. The lieutenant struggled up the half-demolished wall behind him. Deke might have stayed, but he knew that Honcho wouldn’t go without him.
At the top of the wall, Philly had taken up a position to offer suppressing fire with his rifle, not that it seemed to be slowing down the Japanese. Juana was up there, too, firing, working her rifle bolt, then firing again.
Deke tried not to feel like a scared rabbit or a kicked dog running with his tail between his legs. The Japanese jeered at them as they fell back, taunting them with shouts of victory.
Deke gritted his teeth and kept moving. People talked about defeat having a taste, something bitter, and they’d be right. He could taste it now, like something he’d bitten into that was spoiled and rotten. He spat. A split second later, a bullet hit the same brick that his spit had struck.