Before the infiltrators could do any real damage, they were shot down by Honcho, Deke, and Philly.
At first Deke thought that Doc Harmon hadn’t been aware of how close the Japanese had come to getting inside the tent. But then a hand appeared from within and tugged the slits in the canvas closed. It was as if the infiltrators were nothing more than a nuisance.
“I’ll be damned,” Honcho remarked. “That doc has got some sand, all right.”
By first light, the Japanese attacks had subsided. Somewhere within the morning mist that enveloped the edges of the forest, they could actually hear the Japanese talking to one another, and even laughing at one point. The smell of cooking food drifted their way. Apparently the enemy troops were having a hot breakfast.
The Japanese did not depend on canned rations like the Americans did, although the Americans had occasionally come across caches of tinned Japanese crabmeat and even fish. Instead, Japanese troops were typically issued dried rice.
The rice was highly portable and easy to prepare, plus had the benefit of providing hot food. Theoretically US soldiers could heat up their ration cans, but few ever bothered to do so in the field. The distant talk and laughter, along with the smell of the small cooking fires and the hot food, served as a reminder that the Japanese defenders were not only well supplied but in good spirits.
“I’d say those Japanese have a passel of fight left in them,” Deke remarked.
“Yeah, they just don’t know they’re beat yet,” Philly said. He held out a chunk of cold, hard, bitter tropical chocolate, designed not to melt in the tropical heat. First thing in the morning, it was not very appetizing, but it provided instant energy to weary men. “Want some breakfast?”
Deke took it, stuck the square of chocolate in his mouth, and snapped off a bite. The chocolate crumbled like chalk and tasted about the same. He washed it down with some canteen water. “Mmm, mmm. I’ll just pretend it’s scrapple.”
Philly shuddered. “Scrapple? I can’t believe you eat that hillbilly crap.”
“In case you ain’t noticed, I am a hillbilly. Proud of it too.”
The surgeon emerged from the operating tent, which was covered in a heavy dew from the previous night’s damp jungle air.
Honcho offered the surgeon a cigarette, which he accepted with a nod.
“How did it go, Doc?”
“I fixed them up as best as I could. Hopefully the wounded will be transported out to a hospital ship as soon as possible. A couple of them need more surgery, but I patched up the worst of it. Some of them need plasma, too, and we’re damn low on that. It would be helpful if nobody else gets shot today.”
“We’ll see what we can do about that, Doc, but that’s really up to the Japanese.” Honcho grinned. “You can see that the Japanese weren’t too keen on you fixing up the wounded. It doesn’t make sense, being so intent on attacking them. Those men are out of the fight.”
“It’s their way of getting at us mentally,” the doc said. “When they kill our wounded, it makes us feel vulnerable.”
“Then I’ve got to say, it works pretty well.”
Despite his air of nonchalance, it was clear that the doctor was exhausted. He had worked through the night, operating by flashlight, under constant threat of enemy attack. He yawned wide and rubbed his face.
“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of getting some hot coffee around here? Maybe with two sugars?”
“If you find any, Doc, let me know.”
“I guess a cigarette will have to do.”
“Say, aren’t those bad for your health?”
“So is being on a battlefield, but that hasn’t stopped me yet either.”
The surgeon sucked the cigarette smoke deep into his lungs, exhaled, and then walked around the tent, inspecting the dead Japanese with what appeared to be professional curiosity. Like most dead men, they looked smaller than they had while animated by life.
However, the enemy soldiers looked relatively well fed, and their uniforms were in better shape than those of some of those worn by the Americans. Cleaner and not as ragged. These were indications that at least some supplies must still be getting through to the Japanese. The army brass always pitched the idea of the enemy being on the ropes, starving and low on ammo. The GIs in the field knew otherwise.
Even in death, the enemy casualties did not have the look of troops who had been fighting out of desperation.
A few feet away, they could see Yoshio sitting on a crate, skimming the documents that soldiers had collected from dead Japanese scattered across other sections of Camp Downes. The hope was that he would find maps or orders, documents that gave a hint of the Japanese positions and strength. So far, all that he had come across were letters from home. It was a reminder that the Japanese might not be as monstrous as they had seemed during the night.
When their bodies had been searched, it revealed that many of the Japanese were wearing colorful “thousand-stitch belts” around their waists. Even die-hard souvenir hunters among the US soldiers left them alone. The embroidered belts had been made for the enemy dead by loved ones at home — mothers and wives, sisters and sweethearts. The belts were intended to keep their men safe from harm, much in the way that many US soldiers wore a cross or religious scapular under their uniforms. It was evident that neither crosses nor thousand-stitch belts did much to stop bullets, but a soldier took hope where he could.
In truth, there were a surprisingly small number of dead enemy troops. During the night, it had felt as if hordes were infiltrating the camp. It went to show just how effective the infiltrators’ tactics had been.
“I have to say, these enemy soldiers appear to be in good physical condition,” the surgeon observed, unwittingly echoing what Deke had said earlier to Philly. “It’s not going to be an easy fight.”
“Yeah, well,” Honcho said. “At least these fellas won’t be helping.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The soldiers emerged from their nighttime ordeal dazed and exhausted. Some moved stiffly from being cramped into their foxholes all night. Early-morning jungle dew beaded their helmets and dampened their uniforms.
They had survived the series of piecemeal nighttime incursions by the enemy, but those had taken their toll in a way that was almost as devastating as a coordinated daytime attack, whittling away at their spirit and energy. The night had left their nerves feeling as raw as their bloodshot eyes, tired from straining to see into the darkness.
Now that it was daylight, there was a new threat that the Japanese might be trying a different tactic and launching just such an all-out attack.
“If the Japanese do attack, I hope it’s sooner rather than later,” Deke told Philly. The two men sat side by side in a foxhole, eating what passed for breakfast and washing it down with metallic canteen water.
“How about if they don’t attack us at all?” Philly suggested.
Deke shook his head. “One way or another, we’re gonna have to fight some Japanese today. At least we’re dug in here at Camp Downes. If they hit us once we push on toward Ormoc, we’ll be caught out in the open.”
“Caught with our pants down, you mean,” Philly said. “Wouldn’t be the first time. It’s not a pretty sight.”
“No, it ain’t,” Deke agreed.
Overhead, a single reconnaissance plane made slow sweeps over the frontline area. Nobody paid the plane much attention because it was one of their own.
The plane was designated as an L-4 Grasshopper, basically known in civilian life as a Piper Cub. With a fixed upper wing, a top speed of 85 miles per hour, and a maximum operational altitude of twelve thousand feet, the unarmed army plane wasn’t about to tangle with any enemy fighters. However, the plane’s ability to chug overhead at just under 40 miles per hour made it ideal for observation missions. Typically the pilot got in close while the aerial photographer clicked away.