Deke fired from the hip, the .30–06 slug taking out the nearest Japanese. The soldier behind the one that Deke had just shot opened fire. Deke felt the bullet give a hard tug at his hip. Was he hit? No time to think about that. He worked the bolt and fired at point-blank range, hitting the Japanese in the chest. Powder burns from Deke’s muzzle flash smoldered on the brown tunic. The man collapsed like a rag doll.
Behind Deke, the other members of Patrol Easy were dealing with enemy troops in the trench in similar fashion. It was a bloody, desperate fight as enemy soldiers sprang from hidden alcoves carved into the walls of the trench. The attacks were savage, and no quarter was given on either side. For the Japanese, this wasn’t a nameless dirt trench at all, but the very doorstep of Japan. They would die defending it.
Philly was screaming bloody murder and blasting away with his rifle. When the empty clip spun away, Philly dropped his rifle and pulled his knife. He slashed wildly, the blade knocking aside a Japanese muzzle that was pointed at him. The enemy soldier let go of the rifle and turned to run, but he didn’t get far before Deke’s bullet cut him down.
Over and over again he heard the deep boom of Honcho’s shotgun. Thor barked madly.
Out of the corner of his eye, Deke caught a glimpse of Yoshio using his rifle butt to smash a Japanese soldier in the face. Damn, didn’t know the kid had it in him.
He heard curses in English, enraged shouts in Japanese, and gunshots, then an uneasy silence in the trench itself, even as the enemy higher on the hill kept firing. Most of the Americans were now under cover, so the shots were wasted.
Deke reached for his hip, which felt wet. Blood? Something had struck him there, but he didn’t feel any pain. He glanced down and saw with relief that his canteen was leaking water thanks to a bullet hole that went right through it.
“Don’t that beat all,” Deke muttered, feeling a sense of relief.
“I must have shot three of those yellow bastards,” Philly said. He sounded pumped up, full of adrenaline from the fight. “They just don’t know when to quit.”
Deke thought about his father, who had fought in the trenches in the Great War. Had it been like that for him? No wonder his father had been content to return to his mountain farm and never speak of what he’d seen and done.
Deke looked around and took stock. He spotted Yoshio, Lieutenant Steele, and the rest of the squad. Egan had hold of his dog, still straining at his leash as if ready to run after the Japs, so they had both made it through.
The local mosquito population began to swarm as darkness approached, buzzing in Deke’s ears. They had hatched by the thousands in the water festering in the bottom of the trench. The soldiers’ arrival only stirred them up.
“Damn, but I swear these skeeters are as bad as Japanese dive bombers,” Deke said.
“Huh, I haven’t even seen a mosquito,” Philly lied, scratching his fresh bites. “You country boys must taste sweet to them.”
After a while, Deke gave up even trying to slap the mosquitoes away. On his exposed neck and arms, it soon felt as though even his bug bites were getting bites. It just added to the misery of holding this trench.
Deke’s eyes went to a prone body, one of the GIs from B Company who hadn’t been lucky enough to survive the attack. Deke dug through the fallen soldier’s gear for spare ammunition and then took the dead man’s canteen. Deke figured he would need the items more than the dead soldier.
They had managed to take the trench, gaining a foothold on Hill 522. However, taking the rest of the hill promised to be an even tougher, more miserable fight.
CHAPTER TWELVE
That morning, from the crest of Hill 522, Ikeda had watched with a sense of awe at the American landing craft racing toward the beach. So many boats!
“It looks as if the entire American fleet is here,” said Morosawa, who was watching the spectacle through binoculars. In many ways, Morosawa was his right-hand man. Like Ikeda himself, Morosawa and the other highly trained sogekihei were eager to meet the enemy.
“They say this is only a part of their fleet,” Ikeda replied.
Both men thought about that. It seemed impossible that the Americans could have even more ships. “I wish they would come within rifle range,” Morosawa said.
“Be patient, Kazuyuki. Our rifle barrels will be hot soon enough.”
They had been expecting the invasion for many long weeks, but Ikeda realized that his imagination had not been the equal of the actual sight of Leyte Gulf packed with ships and the skies filled with enemy planes.
From their vantage point, many of the Japanese troops watched anxiously. They had emerged from their deep shelters, unscathed, after the massive American bombardment. The defenses that they had labored to build had worked perfectly.
“Remember your duty!” shouted Major Noguchi, passing by in his dress uniform, complete with sword. The major caught Ikeda’s eye and nodded. “Look around you at these defenses that we have built! The Americans will break upon them like waves on the rocky shore!”
Ikeda was so used to seeing Noguchi in his simple work uniform, often as dusty as the laborers and carrying a shovel, that it was strange to see the major in his formal uniform. The crisp officer’s dress uniform looked out of place against the backdrop of rugged logs and fresh earth that composed the hill’s defenses, but then Ikeda understood. Major Noguchi planned to die here today.
Noguchi had poured all his energy into the defenses of this hill. Now that the hour of battle had come, the officer planned to defend the hill to the end, all while wearing his funeral best. Ikeda watched the major closely but saw no trace of sadness or fear. Major Noguchi looked calm — even happy — his energy focused on the battle to come.
Not every Japanese soldier shared in the fervor to die for the Emperor. For them, ample amounts of liquor were circulating. It was easier to be brave when inebriated. The sight of so many ships, planes, and soldiers arrayed against them felt overwhelming.
“Drink up, Ikeda!” said another gunsō, offering him a drink from a bottle. “Our ancestors will understand if we arrive a little tipsy.”
Ikeda shook his head at the offer of a drink. “I need a clear head for shooting. How would I hit a target if I am drunk?”
“Suit yourself! More for us!” the gunsō said with a laugh, moving on. Clearly he was already feeling the effect of the alcohol.
Unlike many of his comrades taking deep drinks of liquor, Ikeda felt no fear at all, but only a sense of elation. The long-awaited battle had finally begun. After weeks and months of preparation, they would fight. Their forces had been unleashed.
During the course of the morning, the battle had unfolded, beginning with the beach landing. Now that it was past midday, the Americans were pushing inland. Ikeda had been expecting the enemy to attack the hill for a while. Having skirted the town of Palo itself, which was still held by a handful of Japanese troops, the Americans were finally pushing up the slope.
His pulse raced, his eyes hot and dry as they flicked from one patch of ground to the next, eagerly seeking out targets. There were so many that it was difficult to pick out just one. He sought out officers in particular because they were the most valuable targets. It was exactly what he had been trained to do.
His initial euphoria at the sight of the Americans — at long last, the real fight had begun — had soon vanished. If he had been excited by the American attack on Hill 522 itself, that moment was long past. Now Ikeda spent his time watching and waiting for the enemy to show themselves. He had come to realize that he would need to use all his sniper skills if he was going to turn the tide against the onslaught of Americans.