“Pancakes for me,” Yoshio said.
Of course there wasn’t any pot of fresh coffee, and certainly no pancakes, so they had to settle for a few swigs of canteen water that tasted stale and metallic. Deke sighed. He never had stayed in a fancy hotel, but his mouth watered at the thought of some biscuits and gravy. The closest thing a soldier in the field could get to breakfast was the “Chopped Ham, Egg, and Potato” C-ration. It came in a sixteen-ounce can and was wildly unpopular. Deke munched on a few crackers instead.
Their small task force reunited. A few of the guerrillas had taken their chances sheltering in the forest, none too eager to spend the night in the confines of the abandoned Japanese fortifications. They emerged dripping wet from the forest, but evidently ready to face whatever the day presented. Many of the guerrillas had lived rough like this for weeks, if not months. They were a hardy bunch.
“How did you sleep?” Father Francisco inquired pleasantly, as if they had all just passed the night at a roadside inn rather than in a jungle potentially crawling with enemy troops.
“Just fine, Father,” Lieutenant Steele said, looking amused. “The maid even left a mint on the pillow.”
The priest shook out his damp cassock, and a centipede the size of a pinkie finger fell out and crawled away. “Look at that little fellow,” he said. “I have to say, I would have preferred a mint.”
The guerrillas ate a quick breakfast, sharing a loaf of home-baked bread that was only somewhat damp from the rain. Father Francisco said a brief prayer over it first. Religion seemed to thrive in these bitter conditions.
Then the group moved out, Danilo and Deke once more in the lead. In the wake of the storm, the air among the trees felt more oppressive than ever. They moved through a humid funk.
It was not easy going. The storm made it necessary to constantly stop and clear fallen trees and brush blocking the jungle trail. The guerrillas’ bolo knives made quick work of the obstacles, while Deke used his bowie knife to hack at the coils of vines that had fallen across the trail.
Mosquitoes pestered the men, clouds of them so thick that they buzzed constantly in their ears. Spiders hadn’t wasted any time weaving new webs across the path, taking advantage of the swarms of insects that had hatched in the wet conditions left by the storm. Out at the front of the column, Deke broke through the webs and tangled with a few spiders that would have given a tarantula a run for its money.
Along with the humidity, the tension of this mission seemed to have grown more palpable. A cloud passed over the morning sun, plunging the path into gloom once again. The day suddenly felt less promising.
“According to the map, we still have a ways to go,” Lieutenant Steele said. “The storm cost us a lot of time, and the mess it left isn’t helping any.”
“At least there haven’t been any Japanese through here,” muttered Philly, who was following a few feet behind Deke, more than happy to let him clear the way.
“I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” Deke responded. “The closer that we get to that POW camp, there’s bound to be some Japanese around.”
Deke had a sixth sense about these things, and his instincts had never let him down before. He knew for a fact that he wouldn’t still be here if he hadn’t learned to trust those instincts. It was like some sort of internal weather vane that you ignored to your peril.
He wasn’t the only one attuned to the surroundings. Up ahead he saw that Danilo had also adjusted his pace and grown more cautious. Instead of bulling through the debris across the path, Danilo was going under it or around it, moving quietly. Deke followed his lead and did the same.
He could sense that they were being watched, although it seemed impossible that anyone else could be out here in this dense forest or see any distance through it. He raised his rifle and peered through the scope, scanning the trees ahead for any sign of movement.
Except for a few birds flitting through the trees, there was nothing.
Slowly, Deke lowered his rifle. Something about this section of forest they were moving through just didn’t feel right.
As they rounded a bend, they came across a small clearing. In the center of the clearing were several small huts made from tree saplings and thatch. Deke counted at least a half-dozen huts — not enough to count as a village, perhaps not even big enough to be a hamlet, but an outpost of some kind.
A thin wisp of smoke curled up from one of the huts, as if from a small cooking fire. Clearly this village had been occupied recently, but no one appeared to greet them. The place was empty as a ghost town.
Deke had a bad feeling about this.
The column came to a halt. Both the lieutenant and the priest crept forward to confer with Deke and Danilo.
Deacon scanned the area for any signs of movement, rifle at the ready.
“This can’t be the compound,” Steele whispered, nodding at the huts while he kept both hands wrapped around his shotgun. “There’s sure as hell no fence around it, for starters. This is something else altogether.”
“No, we are not nearly close enough to where the POWs are being held,” Father Francisco agreed. “My men who have seen it say that the compound is much larger and well defended.”
“Then what is this place?” Philly wondered. “I don’t see any Japanese.”
“Philly, just who the hell else would be out here?” Deke asked.
“I don’t like it,” Philly said, pointing at the chimney smoke rising from the hut. If somebody wasn’t still in there, then they were nearby. “It’s spooky.”
“Yoshio, give them a howdy,” Steele said. “Let’s just see if anybody is around.”
Yoshio crept forward cautiously and shouted a greeting in Japanese.
“Ohayou!”
The only response was silence.
They would soon have their answer as to who occupied the huts.
Steele issued his orders. “Deke, you and Philly work your way around the back. I’ll cover the front with Father Francisco and his men. Keep your eyes open, everybody. Let’s figure out just what the hell is going on here.”
The team split up, moving silently through the jungle toward their assigned positions. Deke and Philly circled the huts cautiously, their rifles at the ready. The damp ground enabled them to move silently.
Deke felt that, just maybe, they were going to get lucky for once and get the drop on whoever was in these huts. It would be even luckier, he supposed, if whoever was here had simply fled.
As they moved around to the rear, the rest of the group slowly advanced into the village itself.
The silence was broken when a shot was fired from the hut that had the smoke trailing out of it. Apparently it had been occupied, after all. One of the guerrillas went down.
In that moment Deke realized it was a trap.
“Get down,” he shouted, shoving at Philly’s shoulder.
No sooner had they hit the ground than rifle fire began pouring from the trees beyond the clearing. Bullets ripped the air overhead.
Deke gritted his teeth and took a deep breath, feeling a rush of adrenaline course through his veins. He didn’t feel any fear, but only an eagerness for action. He raised his rifle and started firing at the edge of the forest, where the enemy was hidden.
Philly followed his lead, firing back at the enemy. The firefight was intense, with bullets whizzing past them and clipping the leaves and branches at the edges of the jungle.
Deke could feel the sweat pouring down his face, his heart racing. He knew that his life was on the line, that he was exposed out here in the clearing, but he also knew that he had a job to do. He kept firing, although none of the enemy had shown themselves. He did hear a few of the unseen enemy shouting at one another in voices that were distinctly Japanese.