It was no wonder that the Japanese had gained true control of only the more urban areas. In the more remote provinces, the Japanese remained under constant threat of attack — and often retaliated or took out their frustrations on the helpless civilian population in the towns and small villages.
Deke looked around, noting that the only one who hadn’t seemed to sleep was Lieutenant Steele. The ring of cigarette butts surrounding the spot where he’d spent the night on a tree stump indicated that he’d been awake most of the night, keeping watch, and probably planning out in minute detail exactly what had to happen in the morning. It was just what good officers did. Deke shook his head, filled with new admiration for the lieutenant. Didn’t the man ever sleep?
The other man who hadn’t seemed to sleep was the priest. He’d already been up and moving before anyone else. He seemed to have many small tasks to do while the Filipinos slept. Eventually, one of the older Filipinos — the one wearing the pinstriped shirt, who seemed to have a leadership position in the guerrilla band — went around waking the others by nudging them with his sandaled foot. The priest found time to visit with each small group of guerrillas around the cooking fires. He prayed with some quietly, or simply gave their shoulders a quick squeeze of encouragement.
Breakfast eaten, they were soon up and on their feet, but they weren’t quite ready to set out yet. Apparently, the individual prayers were not enough, because the guerrillas gathered around to pray as a group.
The lieutenant shifted the shotgun to his shoulder and watched impatiently as the Filipinos bent their heads. Quietly, Father Francisco spoke a prayer. Deke wasn’t really the praying type, but he noticed that the marines, along with Rodeo, Alphabet, and Yoshio, all bowed their heads. The priest added a few words in English for the benefit of the Americans, praying for a successful mission and their safe return.
When he had finished, the priest nodded at the lieutenant.
“All right, let’s move out, Padre,” Steele said. “Keep it quiet. There’s no telling if the Japs have any sentries, but I’m willing to bet that they do. Deke, I want you up front.”
The Filipino guerrilla who had been wearing the tattered pinstripe shirt yesterday led the way, which made sense considering that he knew the territory, while Deke was just behind him. He didn’t know the guerrilla’s name, but in his mind Deke had nicknamed him “Pinstripe.” This morning he had put on a Japanese fatigue jacket over the shirt, but the contrasting collar was still visible. The rest of Patrol Easy followed Pinstripe and Deke, with the guerrillas and Father Francisco next. Thanks to the soft forest floor underfoot, they managed to make very little noise.
Pinstripe picked his way quietly through the thick underbrush, and they soon reached the “back door” trail that would take them up the hill. This was the trail used to bring supplies up the far side of the hill — the opposite of the beach side, where the Japanese expected an attack.
Deke hoped that they didn’t encounter any supply trains coming up the hill that morning — it was the last thing they would need. So much of the plan depended on surprise, and a single rifle shot or warning shout would upset all their plans.
In the gloom, Deke saw the Filipino ahead of him halt and go into a crouch. He did the same, wondering what the guerrilla soldier had seen. Considering that it was still nearly dark, the man must have had eyes like a panther.
That was when Deke spotted the sentry, keeping watch over the trail. He stood near a post that had a covered box on it, and Deke realized that this was probably a telephone with a line directly to Jap headquarters. Maybe this was a back door, but the Japanese hadn’t left it completely unprotected. Once again, it was a good reminder that the Japanese should never be underestimated. I wonder what other surprises they’ve got for us.
Pinstripe raised his rifle as if he was about to shoot the Jap sentry, but Deke moved forward and touched the man on the shoulder. Now that he had the guerrilla’s attention, Deke shook his head at him. No. The last thing that they needed was a rifle shot that would alert every Jap on the hill that something was happening. Their plan of attack would have gone out the window before it had barely begun.
Shooting him wasn’t an option, but the sentry had to be eliminated if the rest of the patrol was to get past him.
He could have waited for Lieutenant Steele to catch up, so that Deke could ask him what to do, but the more time that elapsed, the greater the odds that the sentry might hear something. If he picked up that phone and warned the rest of the Japanese, the gig was up.
Deke made a decision, even if he didn’t like it. He handed his rifle to the Filipino and whispered, “Hold this.” Even though the guerrilla couldn’t understand the words, good ol’ Pinstripe seemed to get the meaning. He gave Deke a quick nod.
Deke drew his knife. The blade of the drop-point bowie knife made for him by Hollis Bailey at his mountain forge was razor sharp. The Filipino raised his eyebrows in admiration. Sure, the guerrillas had some wicked blades, but there was no doubt that a bowie knife meant business. Silently, Deke crept forward, the knife held in one hand.
He could see the Japanese sentry in the predawn gloom, the man’s lighter-colored uniform showing against the darkness of the surrounding vegetation. The Jap’s rifle was slung over one shoulder, and the man did not appear particularly alert. There was a kind of padded covering on his helmet that must have been intended as some sort of camouflage.
So far the sentry hadn’t spotted him, but for how long would his luck hold out? Deke didn’t like the idea of what was coming next, but he had to do it — and fast.
Deke gripped the knife tightly, his hand sweaty on the antler grip. On the farm and in the fields, he had helped butcher pigs and put wounded deer out of their misery. He was no stranger to ending life. But this was different.
Sure, they had gone over this kind of thing in training — how to kill a man with a knife — but to actually do it was something else altogether. He had killed the enemy before, but always with his rifle. The exception had been the Japanese soldier that he had stabbed with a bayonet on Guam. Then again, that soldier had just shot Ben, his friend from training. His reaction had been one of rage, not cold-blooded murder.
This was just another soldier, doing his duty. Maybe this wasn’t necessary. Maybe they could try to slip past the man — or overpower him and tie him up.
But deep down, Deke knew there was no hope of that. One shout from the sentry, one gunshot, and their whole plan of attack would be in the wind.
He would have liked to work his way behind the sentry. After all, Deke could move as quietly as a fox when he wanted to. Even quieter — back home, he had been known to sneak up on a fox or two while hunting. But he also didn’t want to push his luck. He really didn’t have time to circle around the sentry, so he would have to come at him head-on. It was risky, to say the least. Anything could go wrong.
Deke crouched in the brush at the edge of the trail, no more than ten feet away. He was directly in front of the sentry. The trail opened up in front of him, and there was no more cover between him and the sentry.
Now or never.
Deke jumped up and covered the distance to the sentry in two quick bounds, holding the knife high.
The Jap went wide eyed at the soldier who had materialized out of the jungle. In a panic, he groped at the rifle strap over his shoulder. The Jap opened his mouth to shout something.
Deke never gave him the chance. He jammed his left hand over the sentry’s mouth. He felt the man’s hot breath and the words trying to form — or perhaps not words at all, but only a scream. He shoved the Jap right up against the sentry’s call box. He pressed harder against the soldier’s mouth to keep the man silent. Above Deke’s hand, he got a glimpse of the soldier’s eyes, wide with terror. With his right hand, he stabbed the point of the bowie knife into the base of the sentry’s throat.