But his brief stay in Mindanao was beginning to make some sense. World War I was to Germany’s rise as World War II was to Japan’s emergence today.
They had spent the first night lying silently on the reverse slope of the wooded knoll. Barefoot had packed his satellite gear and stashed it for fear of emitting a signal that the Japanese could detect. They were out of water and food, but the continuous procession of Japanese tanks and infantry fighting vehicles made any move impossible. It seemed that the three-mile road between Cabanatuan and Fort Magsaysay was a main supply route for the Japanese.
A small Japanese patrol had wandered aimlessly into the tree line less than a hundred meters from their hide position. The squad of seven sat in the shade, drank from their canteens, and joked in their native language. Matt could see that one was carrying a Shin Chuo Kogyo submachine gun, normally a tanker’s weapon. Another had a Type 62 machine gun slung across his shoulder with two belts of 7.62mm ammunition wrapped around his body. The weapon had a small telescopic sight perched atop the rear sight assembly. The others were carrying M16A2 rifles.
They sat upon the grave, unsuspecting, and departed without incident when one of the members, probably the leader, stood and began to walk back to the west, toward Cabanatuan.
Earlier, they had witnessed the spectacular airdrop of hundreds of paratroopers at two in the morning. Barefoot had been on watch, and he awoke the others as he had spied the C-130s flying about two hundred meters above the ground discharging hundreds of soldiers. Immediately orange tracers were seeking out the elite soldiers as they fluttered to the ground. Who was friendly and who was enemy?
They could still hear gunfire as the curtain closed on a second day on the knoll. Matt was unaware that Barefoot’s transmission had set the entire mission in operation. But still they were unsure. Were those American soldiers jumping in the middle of the night, or Filipinos? It had been too dark to tell. The Armed Forces of the Philippines certainly had C-130s capable of dropping soldiers. Had the insurgents pirated the airplanes? Were they now fighting Japanese forces?
“We need to try to link up with those paratroopers,” Matt said.
“I’m game for anything,” Barefoot added, his dark skin white from the dust.
“Okay, about two in the morning, we’ll run along the ridge to the west,” Matt said, pointing to his left. “We also need to find some water, so as we move, let’s see if we can’t find a well or something. After that, maybe we can steal a truck and haul ass.”
It was risky, it was loose-knit, and it was desperate. But they were desperate men.
Matt shook Jack and Barefoot until they both wakened.
“Time to go?” Sturgeon asked in his groggy voice.
“Yeah. It’s a little bit before two. The shooting’s stopped some. Figured it would be a good time to bolt,” Matt said, adrenaline pumping through his body, creating a sense of alertness. He held his pistol in his hand, popped the magazine out, and counted bullets. Six. He had seven shots including the round in the chamber.
“Good, let’s book,” Jack said.
“What should I do with this shit?” Barefoot said, patting his satellite gear. It was really too much to carry but could prove useful in the future.
“Leave it here, but bring the tape of Rathburn’s burial. If we have time, we’ll circle back and get the equipment. But more than likely, we’ll just have to scrap it,” Matt said.
“Okay,” Barefoot agreed. After all, it was his equipment. He pulled the tape of Rathburn’s burial out of the camera and stuffed it into his pocket, then covered the expensive gear with some leaves and branches, hoping they could come back for it. As a soldier is attached to his personal gear, Barefoot had his affections for his own equipment. He knew its minor quirks and what buttons he had to push to make the stuff work. With regret, he laid the last branch on the pile, as if he had conducted a burial.
They stood and moved in single file beneath the towering mahogany trees, stepping lightly over the high roots, following a trail that led the mile to Cabanatuan. Jack and Matt carried their pistols in hand at the ready, poised for self-defense. They slipped through the woods as silent as the wind, as if they had trained for it. They were hungry, thirsty, and tired.
They were acting on instinct, like cavemen or animals. They had to satisfy bodily needs, or they would die. It was a simple calculation. Either get up and move, or die from heat exhaustion and hunger.
Lacking energy, but full of adrenaline, somehow they managed to wind their way through the hills and find a perch from which they could survey the half-lit town of Cabanatuan. In the prone, they lay next to each other and watched as green Army trucks ambled back and forth along the white cement road less than seventy-five meters away. The trucks coughed and spit diesel into the air, masking the trio’s movement down to the back of a thatch hut.
One of the drivers unprofessionally turned on his lights, making the small village visible. Matt noticed and said, “Come, this way.”
Sturgeon and Barefoot followed as they ran behind a series of thatch huts.
“Over there,” Matt said, pointing. “It’s a school. They always have wells at their schools.”
They ran, crouched low, heading toward a wooden building that contrasted with the thatch huts. Oddly, they crossed over a dirt court with two baskets at the other end. These guys play basketball? Matt wondered. Reaching the building, they huddled against the wall as headlights traced a line above their heads, finally turning away.
“Must be on the other side,” Matt said, “I don’t see shit over here.”
“Let’s go.”
They ran to the back of the school building, which was a modest, one-room affair that looked more like an old country church without the steeple.
There it was. The pump handle was cocked high in the air above the open-lipped spout. The area beneath the spout was muddy, a good indicator the pump was functional.
The three men scampered to the device, pulling their canteens off their belts. Matt grabbed the handle and pumped hard, letting the others drink from the spout, then fill their canteens. When they were done, Matt stooped low, kneeling in the mud, and drank. He drank some more. Then he gulped down more water, letting it spill across his face. Finally, he opened his mouth again, letting the force of the liquid push open his throat, and race down, nearly causing him to choke.
He felt his body rehydrate. Glistening beads of sweat formed on his dusty arms beneath his torn sleeves. He filled his canteen, letting the water spill on his arms, then he stuck his head beneath the rushing water. That was why he did not hear the first shot.
The first shot caught Jack square in the top of the thigh, cracking his femur. Then the gunfire came pouring forth, kicking dirt into the air. White puffs of dust rose into the blackness of the night.
Barefoot pulled Matt from under the pump, then flipped Sturgeon over his shoulders with acrobatic ease. Matt yanked his pistol from the waist of his pants and began searching for muzzle flashes, back-pedaling as he followed Barefoot back toward the woods.
As they rounded the school, they saw ten Jap-anese soldiers coming from the other corner. They had an opening, however small. If they could only race back behind the thatch huts and get in the woods, they would stand a chance.
Barefoot ran with large steps, his gait like that of a show horse. His powerful frame seemed none the worse from the weight of Jack. Matt saw Jack’s face, grimacing in pain, as his blood drained onto Barefoot’s shirt.
From behind the row of thatch huts jumped an aggressive Japanese soldier, holding a Kogyo submachine gun with folding stock. He yelled something indiscernible to the group of Americans and raised his weapon to fire.