“Nah, he ain’t gonna fall for that.”
He knew they had only one chance at this.
“Get ready,” the clerk said. “I’m going to stand up. When I do that, you shoot him.”
“Wait—” Philly said.
“Get ready,” said Deke, gripping his rifle. Nearby, Danilo gave Deke a nod.
An instant later, the clerk stood up, then bobbed back down like a jack-in-the-box. The Japanese sniper shot at him.
But at that exact moment, Deke leaped up and fired.
The Japanese sniper fell, his body draped over the windowsill.
Philly whistled in admiration. “That was some shot, Corn Pone.”
“I reckon I had some help with that one,” Deke said, catching the clerk’s eye. “I wouldn’t go making a habit of that, you crazy dang fool.”
The clerk looked away, but not before a shy smile lit his face.
Everyone seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for the next crack of sniper fire.
The silence was interrupted by shouts behind them and the rumble of a tank. The rest of the company was moving up, possibly with the rest of the division, from the sounds of it, steamrolling up and over the enemy. At least there wouldn’t be any enemy snipers lurking in the ruins to shoot them in the back.
The troops rolled forward, engaging with any Japanese who stood in their way.
Hour by hour, the firing died away.
Before dark, General Bruce, the division commander, had rolled into the city in his Jeep. He was able to walk freely down streets in a manner that a few hours earlier would have gotten him killed.
Pleased, he sent a simple message back to headquarters:
“Have rolled two sevens in Ormoc. Organized Japanese defenses wiped out. Bruce.”
The general’s message said it all.
Ormoc, the last large town on Leyte, was now in US hands.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Above Ormoc, massive clouds of foul black smoke billowed into the Pacific sky. The retreating Japanese had set their gasoline supplies on fire rather than have it fall into American hands.
“Dammit, we could have used that gas,” remarked a driver who had volunteered to take the wheel of a captured Japanese truck that was now doing double duty, hauling supplies from the beach and serving as an ambulance on the trip back. One arm, and the leg on the opposite side of his body, were heavily bandaged.
Disappointment over the loss of the gasoline was a sentiment shared by many, considering that each drop of fuel had to be laboriously brought ashore. If there was any consolation, it was that the Japanese had no hope of replacing any of the destroyed fuel.
All around Ormoc could be heard the popping sound of exploding ammunition — some of the booms were quite large. In addition to their fuel, the Japanese had also set their ammunition and other supplies ablaze. Their goal was to leave nothing behind that the Americans might be able to use, now that the Japanese had gotten out of Dodge.
The roiling smoke from the burning Japanese stockpiles was proof that the town and nearby airfield were now in American hands, at long last. There remained the threat of Japanese planes pestering the fleet in Leyte Gulf or strafing the GIs on shore, but the threat was much diminished by the capture of the airfield. Of course, there were still many much smaller airfields dotting the Leyte jungle. Light and agile, a Japanese Zero did not require much of a runway to take off and land. One by one, these small air bases would need to be rooted out.
In addition to the wreckage, the toll in human life had been high. Scores of Japanese were now dead. US losses had been surprisingly light — on paper at least. The official number of combat deaths in the fight for Ormoc was listed at thirteen. However, the small number belied the fact that each combat death had been felt severely by his fellow soldiers. There had been a much larger number of wounded, Patrol Easy’s own Alphabet among them. Conditions were not ideal for treating the wounded, but the medical personnel were doing the best they could.
At the edge of town closest to the beachhead, Doc Harmon had set up a rudimentary field hospital — nothing more than a makeshift operating table, some piles of supplies, and tarps set up to keep the sun and weather off the wounded.
As for the tropical flies that settled everywhere, not much could be done about that. Worst among them were the biting flies, a shiny blue-green variety that packed a nasty wallop and raised red welts on unprotected faces, arms, and necks.
Taking a lesson from the night of attacks that the aid station had endured at Camp Downes, several of the walking wounded had been posted as guards. Able-bodied men could not be spared because they were needed for the mopping-up operation. Other troops had been sent — finally — to guard the areas around Ipil and Camp Downes, protecting the US rear as well as the supply road from the beach.
That road would soon be busy carrying supplies to Ormoc. The town would quickly be transformed into the jumping-off point for expeditions deeper into the interior of Leyte, where the remaining Japanese forces would be making their last stand.
It was typical of army operations that once an area was secure, the emphasis shifted to logistics. Bullets might win the battle, but an efficient supply chain was going to win the war.
The supply road was not long in terms of miles, but it was vulnerable to attack. The small bands of Japanese that had evaded capture soon targeted the road, ambushing trucks and even troops moving toward Ormoc. The supply road was now the soft underbelly of the US advance.
Mother Nature also weighed in. A brief but heavy tropical downpour during the night had turned it into a quagmire. Or, as some soldiers liked to say, “King Mud” had arrived. Even the toughest truck driver had to bow down before him.
More than a few of the Japanese trucks were soon stuck up to their axles, so that it took a considerable effort and a steady stream of cursing to get them moving again. Even a tank coming from the beach got so bogged down that it had to be abandoned — at least until the road dried out. So far it was the only tank that had been lost in the fight for Ormoc.
Under these conditions, it would take the better part of two days to carry the wounded to the beach, and another two days for the trucks to return with supplies. The enemy’s destruction of the gasoline stockpiles was felt even more keenly.
Trucks were ready and waiting to take the wounded to the beach. As with the guards, many of the drivers were lightly wounded but had nonetheless volunteered to drive the trucks. Some of them managed to work the clutch using a foot swathed in bandages or steer a bucking bronco of a truck with bandaged hands.
Once they got the wounded to the beach, they would be ferried from there to the superior medical facilities provided by the US Navy. With Ormoc and its airfield knocked out, word had come that the navy would be sending transports once more to carry the wounded off the beach. There were still Japanese planes to worry about, but they were willing to take that chance.
There was enough of a respite from the fighting that Deke was able to walk back to the field hospital to check on Alphabet. Doc Harmon caught sight of Deke passing by and paused in his work long enough to shout, “You look like hell, soldier!”
“You ought to see the other guy, Doc. He doesn’t look like hell. He is in hell.” Moving closer, Deke asked, “How’s my buddy Alphabet doing?”
“He’s already been trucked back to the beach. With any luck, he’ll make it.” Doc Harmon looked Deke up and down with an appraising eye. “What about you? How’s that fever?”
“I’m feeling pretty good. Say, what was in those pills you sent me, Doc?”
“You don’t want to know. Let’s just say you’ll be feeling good for a while. Hell, a horse would be feeling good for a while.”