Over the police department hung a makeshift sign in English: “The Chief of Police of Ormoc wishes all People to know that the Police Station is not a Morgue. Cadavers are not to be deposited here.”
Someone had hung a smaller sign beneath that one, setting the going rate for washing the GIs’ clothes:
Pantalones, 25 centavos
Shirts, 15 centavos
Socks, 5 centavos
Violators will be punished
Philly saw the sign and shook his head. “I don’t know, fellas. Anyone brave enough to wash my socks deserves hazardous-duty pay. Hey, somebody give me a nickel, and I’ll see if I can get my socks washed.”
They all laughed at that. “I reckon when the time comes, we’ll just hold a funeral for your socks and bury them,” Deke said.
“With full honors, I hope.”
“Of course.”
Shops had sprung up, selling a colorful variety of fruits and vegetables to the other hardy civilians who had returned. Not all the civilians had money, though. Swarms of children had appeared like mayflies after a rain, begging candy off the soldiers. A few of the children looked so painfully thin that the GIs didn’t think twice about giving them all their chocolate bars or even full cans of rations.
Even adults weren’t shy about begging for cigarettes.
Fruits and vegetables weren’t the only goods on display. A few working girls in bright skirts lingered on the corners, trying to entice the GIs. Just a week ago, it was likely that these same girls had been providing their services to the Japanese.
Philly saw them and groaned. “Just give me five minutes, boys. That’s all I’d need. I swear to God—”
“Hell, I’d only need three minutes,” Radio said. “I haven’t had any lovin’ since Hawaii. How about you, Deke? You want a piece of that?”
Deke grunted. “Hell, who wouldn’t?”
The response had sounded a little forced, even to Deke’s own ears. Rodeo hadn’t seemed to notice, but Philly gave him a look.
The truth was that Deke had precious little experience with women — the kind you paid or otherwise. He had steered clear of them as a general rule because he had feared that the scars on his face left by the bear would scare them off. Even the ones who said it didn’t matter — he had caught them studying the angry red furrows with a mixture of fascination and horror when they thought he wasn’t looking.
An MP unit arrived to shoo the girls away, resulting in disappointed jeers from the passing soldiers.
But every now and then shots rang out.
The enemy just didn’t know when to quit. A few remained hidden within the city, but they weren’t about to surrender and allow themselves to be taken prisoner. Most would rather die fighting.
“It seems so futile,” Yoshio lamented. They had long since grown used to Yoshio tossing out words that a normal guy wouldn’t use. They chalked it up to the fact that he was always reading a book whatever chance he could get — even if it was the same book, over and over again. “One man against so many.”
“The Japanese are stubborn bastards — you have to give them that,” Philly said.
“Such a waste.”
“Don’t go getting a soft spot for your dead cousin there,” Philly advised, jerking his chin at the body of an enemy soldier in the street. The motion caused his helmet to bobble loosely. “If that Nip was still breathing, he’d be more than happy to stick a bayonet between your ribs, given half a chance.”
They were passing the corpse of the lone saboteur who, under cover of darkness, had apparently lobbed several grenades at a group of supply trucks parked for the night before making another run to the beachhead.
The dead Japanese had short legs but a long torso and what appeared to be powerful shoulders. His face was dark and contorted in death, lips curled in what might have been a snarl or a final hateful shout.
“That’s the ugliest Nip I’ve seen yet,” Philly remarked with a whistle.
“That’s saying something, all right.”
“I sure am glad that I didn’t run into him. Looks like he was a mean son of a bitch.”
From the fact that the corpse was riddled with bullet holes, it was easy enough to guess the enemy soldier’s fate. He must have thrown his grenades and then been cut down by rifle fire. He didn’t even seem to have been carrying a rifle of his own, unless someone had nabbed it as a souvenir. Given the average GI’s propensity for souvenirs, that was entirely possible. Deke judged that the soldier was in his late twenties or early thirties. What had he been in civilian life? Deke wondered. Maybe a factory worker, a teacher, or a farmer like Deke had once been.
He pushed any further speculation from his mind. It was better not to think of the enemy as anything but the enemy.
The dead man’s lone attack had successfully burned two trucks, vehicles that the division couldn’t spare. There simply weren’t any extras to be had.
They had even pressed a few captured Japanese vehicles into service, covering them with hastily painted white stars to avoid confusion. Even a truck driver who had proudly driven an American-made Chrysler had to admit that the Japanese vehicles were sturdy and even more reliable than the US vehicles.
The blackened hulks of the trucks were still smoking, filling the air with the stench of burned rubber and charred automotive paint. Their steel frames had blistered with heat, burning down to the bare metal, as if the fires of hell had exploded on its surface. Oddly enough, the only markings that had survived were the white stars painted on the doors, although these were smudged with soot and ash.
The reek of the burned trucks wasn’t the only offensive smell.
Nearby, the body of the Japanese soldier was also starting to stink in the growing heat, but nobody made any effort to move it.
Dead Japanese were not a priority, although the living ones certainly were.
Lieutenant Steele soon explained that they wouldn’t be staying in Ormoc for long. He had received new marching orders for Patrol Easy.
“Take a good look,” said the lieutenant, who went by the nickname Honcho around his men. It came from a Japanese word that meant something like “boss.” Anyhow, it was better than being addressed as “lieutenant” and drawing enemy sniper fire as a result. “This may be our last glimpse of what passes for civilization for a while. We’re heading back out.”
“Gee, I was hoping to maybe catch a movie and get a haircut,” Philly said.
“Yeah, yeah,” Steele said. “What you really might want to do is find some hip waders. We’re about to slog through some rice paddies.”
Philly groaned, summing up how they all felt. Nobody enjoyed rice paddies. They were muddy, crawling with snakes and occasionally land mines, and there were few places where a man was so completely exposed as a target. But it didn’t sound as if they were going to get much choice.
Gathering them around, the lieutenant spelled out the situation. Now that Ormoc had been taken, the next target for the division would be Palompon. Although smaller than Ormoc, the coastal town provided the Japanese with their last operational port on Leyte. A few Japanese supply vessels and troop transports still managed to come and go, dodging American planes by operating under cover of darkness.
“It’s a straight shot right up Highway 2 from Ormoc to Palompon,” Steele explained.
“Straight shot? I like the sound of that, Honcho. Sounds like there’s nothing to it,” Philly said. “It’s about time we got an easy job.”
“If only it was that simple,” the lieutenant said. “The Japanese have every mile of that road locked up tighter than a farmer’s daughter.”