Ikeda had felt the loss bitterly as a personal loss of face. After all, it had been Ikeda and his squad who were tasked with defending the hill. Major Noguchi had been more pragmatic in the wake of the raid. He had wasted no time in clearing the wreckage of the big guns and installing a smaller artillery battery in the bunker.
“Let them come,” Noguchi said with satisfaction. “The enemy will pay dearly!”
Noguchi was making no idle boast. The hill was nearly a perfect natural fortress, with the muddy Bangon River running along the base and serving as a kind of moat. The river was too deep and swift to ford. At the base of the hillside that faced the sea, separated from the hill by the river, nestled the town of Palo.
This town had been a source of frustration, especially for Ikeda, who was tasked with controlling the local guerrillas, who constantly harassed the Japanese. They were the equivalent of the French Resistance. It was clear that the guerrillas were supported by the townspeople, with many of their husbands, fathers, and brothers in the ranks. These resistance fighters knew better than to launch an all-out assault on the Japanese, but their ambush attacks interfered with the supply chain and whittled away at Japanese morale. Many small groups of Japanese soldiers who had made the mistake of traveling the jungle roads alone had disappeared.
The town was provincial, with its key feature being its centuries-old Catholic cathedral. The church was woven through the fabric of the town, and Ikeda knew that its priest supported the rebels. When Ikeda had gone to arrest him, the man had slipped into the jungle and could not be found, warned by the townspeople. Now the priest was a thorn in Ikeda’s side, because he was living in the jungle with the Filipino guerrillas, providing them leadership and faith. If Ikeda ever caught that priest, there would be no mercy for a man of the cloth.
Meanwhile, Sergeant Ikeda took out his frustration on the town. He took his sogekihei squad door to door. Some of his men had been chosen for their ability with a rifle — he wanted a team of crack snipers — but they tended to be men who were discipline problems and that other units were more than glad to be rid of. Thanks to Ikeda, they now had the perverse sense of pride that came from being in a unit of fellow outcasts. They were also loyal to a fault.
“Spread out. You know what to do,” Ikeda told them.
His men seized extra food and even blankets that might go to help the guerrillas. If a young woman was dragged into a house or hut so that the soldiers could have their way with her, so be it. Anyone who opposed them faced a severe beating. The arrival of Ikeda and his squad had become a much-feared sight on the streets of Palo. To be sure, the Japanese would not find any friends among the local Filipino population.
Ikeda joined the men checking a house. A woman answered the door, fear etched on her face.
“The guerrillas,” Ikeda demanded. “Where are they?”
The woman shook her head and stammered a response that Ikeda could not understand.
Frustrated, he repeated his question, louder this time. The woman just shook her head.
One of the difficulties they faced was the language barrier. The townspeople did not know any Japanese — or at least they pretended not to. Ikeda and his men did not speak any of the local language and couldn’t be bothered to learn.
The only bridge across this language gap was English. The Americans had been a presence for so long in the Philippines that most of the townspeople knew at least a little English. Many Japanese also spoke some English.
Ikeda hated to use English, because it represented Japan’s enemy, but in this case it could not be avoided.
“Your man?” Ikeda asked. “Where is he?”
The woman looked surprised to hear the question in English. Without thinking, she blurted a reply, “The forest.”
Ikeda nodded curtly. In his mind, the woman had just confirmed that she collaborated with the guerrillas. In one smooth motion, he raised his rifle and struck the woman hard in the face. She cried out as she crumpled and then lay on the ground without a sound.
“Search the house,” he ordered his men. “Take anything of value.”
Stepping over the unconscious woman, Ikeda’s men hurried to ransack the house. They would gladly relieve this woman of her meager possessions and food supplies.
When she finally came to, wouldn’t she be surprised?
Ikeda had his reasons for such cruelty. After the raid that had destroyed the massive battery on the hill, Ikeda had wanted to take a large force of soldiers and punish the town — possibly even by putting it to the torch. Major Noguchi had a cooler head and would not allow it.
“Anyone who supports these guerrillas will be punished,” Noguchi had said. “Continue to do that, Ikeda. But show some restraint. Do not destroy the entire town, or you won’t just have me to answer to. General Yamashita himself would not be pleased. We must show restraint.”
Ikeda had obeyed orders, although he felt as if he had one hand tied behind his back as far as the town of Palo was concerned.
But he managed to take his revenge in other ways.
First, he had to wait for Major Noguchi to be out of the way. Although Noguchi tended to see his own men, and certainly the local Filipino laborers, more as a means to an end than as human beings, he was not overtly cruel. Ikeda had no such compunctions.
After a while, Noguchi was called elsewhere, occupied with another one of the problems that arose endlessly. He finally disappeared into the hilltop bunker that had once held the massive battery—before the American raiders had destroyed it, he thought bitterly.
Ikeda waved over one of his sogekihei, a silent man named Kazuyuki Morosawa. Although Morosawa was a good shot, Ikeda mainly appreciated the fact that Morosawa never seemed compelled to fill any silence with idle conversation. For a sniper, that could be a life-and-death quality.
Ikeda climbed higher on the hill, Morosawa following closely. Ikeda was in good shape, but the effort of climbing the steep hillside still made his heart pound. He mopped sweat from his face using a rag, then tied the rag around his head under his noncommissioned officer’s hat. For what he had planned, sweat running into his eyes would be an annoyance. Morosawa was sweating just as profusely, but he didn’t complain.
From up here, he had an even better view of the sparkling blue sea beyond, still blessedly empty of enemy ships. He also had an uninterrupted view of the long slope of the hillside below, where groups of men labored. This perspective of looking down on others and the heft of the rifle in his hands made Ikeda feel a little of the power possessed by a god. This must be how the Emperor himself felt. Ikeda had a high opinion of himself, but even he felt a twinge of unworthiness in comparing himself to anyone so exalted as the Emperor. Still, it was an incredible view.
However, Ikeda had not climbed up here to admire the scenery, beautiful as it was.
“Come on,” he said to Morosawa. “I want to reach the top before it gets any hotter.”
“Hai,” the man responded.
Ikeda moved on toward his destination. Hill 522 did not rise to a single peak but had a forked or Y shape toward the summit, with one branch of the Y slightly higher than the other. From the air, pilots said that the hill resembled the tip of a lizard’s forked tongue.