“I think he was using his dead buddy here like a staked goat, trying to lure us in,” Deke announced. “He knew we’d stop to take a look.”
“I don’t think you’d be wrong about that,” Steele said. “The question is, Did he shoot his buddy for that purpose, or was the man already dead?”
“I hadn’t thought about that,” Deke said. As usual, Honcho was one step ahead of him. “Then again, you had to admit that would be kind of messed up to use someone on his own side for bait.”
Steele looked pointedly at Philly. “Maybe it was somebody who talked too much. Kind of got on his nerves. Glad to get rid of him.”
“Geez, Honcho.” Philly snorted indignantly. “Don’t go getting any ideas.”
It was all familiar banter, and it felt good slipping into their old roles. They all felt a sense of relief that the sniper had been eliminated. Might as well enjoy a few wisecracks while they still could.
They moved on. The shadows stretched longer as the sun dropped lower in the sky. The decreasing heat was welcome, but not the thought of the coming darkness itself. The enemy always seemed to have an advantage at night and even preferred operating under cover of darkness.
“We have to get off this trail and make camp before nightfall,” Steele said. “The last thing we need is to go wandering right into a Japanese patrol once it gets dark.”
At the same time, they were trying to squeeze every bit of daylight out of the air. Every foot they covered would be one less step to take in the morning.
Steele’s fears about running into an enemy patrol soon seemed justified. The lieutenant froze and raised his shotgun. There was no need for orders. Everyone knew what Steele’s reaction meant.
Trouble.
Up ahead, the branches of the trees stirred, moving in a way that was out of proportion to the snatches of breeze that reached down among the trees.
Deke squinted into the shadows, trying to make out what he had seen. After a moment, he saw it again — movement among the trees — something or someone moving with enough force that it shook the branches.
“It’s got to be an enemy patrol!” Philly whispered loudly. “Everyone get down!”
Steele motioned for him to be quiet. For the next several seconds, they all held their breath to see what was next.
Deke listened intently, but there was no sound. He leveled his rifle at the greenery and waited, finger on the trigger, as the branches slowly parted.
Each one of their muzzles was pointed at that patch of brush, ready to open fire.
“Come on out, you bastards,” Philly muttered, rifle at the ready.
The branches parted like the curtains of a stage being opened to reveal the next act.
But the man who stepped onto the trail was not Japanese. First, he was too tall and broad. Second, he wore a simple dark-brown cassock, to which a few leaves and twigs clung.
“Hello, my friends,” said Father Francisco, stepping into the jungle road. “God bless.”
“I’ll be damned,” Steele said, then added, “No offense, Father.”
“None taken. Those rifles of yours are a welcome sight, believe me.” He smiled. “However, I would prefer that they not be pointed at me.”
“Sorry, Padre.” Steele lowered his weapon, and the rest of the patrol followed suit.
Although the priest was not armed, he was not alone. The gap in the brush widened as several men pushed the branches aside. Deke counted a dozen Filipino guerrillas. They were a hard-looking bunch, wearing tattered civilian clothes rather than uniforms and broad-brimmed hats as protection against the tropical sun and whatever creepy crawlies might be inclined to drop down the back of one’s neck from the vegetation above. Deke understood, considering that he had long since abandoned his steel helmet in favor of the Aussie-style outback hat with the brim pinned up on his shooting side.
However, there was no mistaking the deadly intent of these guerrillas. Most carried captured Japanese rifles, although some had recently upgraded to American M-1 rifles. In some cases, a length of rope served as a rifle sling. Deke noted with approval that the battered rifles looked clean and well oiled. The damp tropical environment was not kind to weaponry.
Even more menacing than their rifles, many of the Filipinos wore their customary bolo knives hanging at their sides like small swords or even slung across their backs. The bolo knife was essentially a machete, honed razor sharp to hack through jungle vegetation — a useful tool on Leyte. In some cases bolo knives were passed down from father to son, one of the more treasured possessions of a family that did not own many material things.
In the hands of Filipino guerrillas who had an especial hatred for the Japanese occupiers, it also made a terrifying weapon.
Danilo stepped forward and greeted the other guerrillas. It was one of the rare times that a genuinely warm smile crossed his normally expressionless face. Usually he bore the hardships of war like a true jungle stoic.
No wonder he was smiling for a change. Patrol Easy had just found its reinforcements.
They were acquainted with Father Francisco and his band of guerrillas from their earlier mission to take out the massive artillery battery on Hill 522 outside Palo, ahead of the initial beach landing on Leyte. The removal of the gun had been critical to success, because with its twenty-mile range and devastating shells, the invasion fleet might have suffered heavy losses. The gun had been manufactured for the huge Japanese battleship Yamato and its twin, the Musashi, sunk in the sea battle of Leyte Gulf. Considering that the battleships already had their full complement of weapons, the guns had not been needed on the ships. Rather than let the impressive guns gather rust, the Japanese had installed them in shore defenses.
Technically Patrol Easy had undertaken a mission behind enemy lines — although that line was actually an island in this case. The only reason they had been successful was because of Father Francisco and his guerrillas, who had provided the support and local knowledge to make the mission possible.
The guerrillas had paid a heavy price. As part of a diversionary tactic, some of those guerrillas had attacked Hill 522 and been captured. Deke and the others had watched in horror as the captured Filipinos were beheaded. The brutality of the enemy was difficult to believe, even when witnessed firsthand.
By turns kind and fierce, Father Francisco might have made a good stand-in for Friar Tuck. Growing up, Deke’s encounters with religion had mainly been of preachers of the fire-and-brimstone variety, whose God seemed to resemble a mean old county sheriff intent on punishing humans for every transgression. Father Francisco spread the word with a quiet kindness and his own example. Deke found the priest’s presence reassuring.
The priest had the appearance of being mostly of Spanish descent, being taller and broader than any of the guerrillas. If he hadn’t been garbed as a priest, he would have resembled a bouncer at an off-base dive bar. Even with actual Spanish heritage, his Filipino roots would have limited his career as a priest just a few years before. The Jesuit priests who tightly controlled the church had all been trained and educated in Spain, of which the Philippines was a colony. The Spanish had preserved a system in which the ruling class did not include actual Filipinos.
The capture of the Philippines during the Spanish-American War had brought changes in that the new US government had ordered all the Spanish priests to be sent home. These priests were seen as representing the old Spanish empire, and the church was closely aligned with the Spanish government.
There had been little animosity toward Spain or the Spanish compared to what would come with American feelings toward Germany and even German immigrants in WWI. In fact, popular books of the day published positive accounts of Spanish life and culture, with Spain typically portrayed as a “quaint” European “old country” whose glory days were behind it. The war had certainly resulted in bloodshed, but ultimately it was more of a passing of the torch from an old, tired empire to the up-and-coming American empire.