“Have you seen that jungle out there? I took a wrong turn.”
The officer frowned, staring at Deke as if expecting him to say more. Finally, he prompted, “A wrong turn that took you directly to our gate? This seems very curious.”
But Deke wasn’t interested in giving the Japanese officer additional information — or making him feel any better about himself. In Deke’s book, this officer was just as bad as all the rest. “You do know that when this war is over and you’ve lost, they’ll hang you just as high as the others for what has happened at this camp. General MacArthur has promised as much, and he’s a man who keeps his word. Don’t forget that he said he’d be back to the Philippines, and he meant it.”
Eyeglasses glared at Deke, then said something in Japanese to the medic, speaking a few harsh words. The medic gathered up his bowl and bandages, then hurried out. Eyeglasses and the soldier with the bayonet left, leaving Deke to his evening meal.
As Faraday had promised, the meal was disappointing. When it had been delivered, the light from the open door had revealed a bowl that contained nothing more than tepid water with what looked like a few green leaves floating in it. He thought they might be the Japanese equivalent of turnip greens. He’d seen dishwater that looked more appetizing. His first thought was to dump it out, but he realized that to survive this place, and perhaps escape from it, he needed every last bit of energy.
There were no utensils, so Deke was left to lap up the watery broth like a dog and stuff the slimy greens into his mouth using his fingers. He ate quickly to avoid tasting it.
He thought that maybe he could use the bowl as a tool, but two guards returned to collect it, once again waving a bayonet in his face as if Deke were some sort of cornered wild animal.
Maybe they ain’t too wrong, he thought.
Eyeglasses was not with them this time. Deke smirked at that. Perhaps the officer had been dissatisfied with Deke’s unwillingness to appear thankful to the man for being just slightly less awful than the rest of the bunch.
Having finished what passed for a meal, he leaned back against the wall, willing himself not to fall asleep despite his exhaustion.
Out of sheer habit, he felt around for his rifle, which he was so used to having nearby. The feel of the smooth wood and steel in his hands was always reassuring. The rifle protected him but also gave him power. He reminded himself that he didn’t have his rifle with him, which only made him feel more hollow and powerless.
The minutes passed, becoming hours. Without being able to see the sky, the stars, or the moon, he had no way of knowing the time. He hadn’t worn a watch upon giving himself up at the prison gates, because the enemy would have seized it.
Patrol Easy and the guerrillas would be cutting through the fence at midnight.
He had pinned his hopes on Faraday to lead the escape.
It was just possible that Faraday would be able to get the other prisoners through the gap, but even if that happened, it was beginning to look like Deke would be left behind.
If that happened, the commandant and Mr. Suey would be none too happy with him, and Eyeglasses wouldn’t be able to do a damn thing about it.
Hidden in the forest just beyond the perimeter of the fence, Lieutenant Steele watched the compound through binoculars, using his one good eye. He hadn’t seen any unusual activity indicating that the Japanese suspected tonight’s escape attempt. There did not appear to be any extra guards on patrol. Just about dark, he had watched two men climb up into the watchtower, and two others climb down.
In other words, it was business as usual.
The minutes leading to midnight crept past, filled with the night noises of the surrounding forest, which included singing insects and the occasional spine-curdling cry of some animal. Was the creature being hunted, or was it the hunter? It was hard to say. From time to time they heard muted laughter from the guard barracks.
Briefly, music drifted from the commandant’s house, so low that it was hard to even recognize the tune. Maybe some kind of jazz? The thought of that Japanese bastard enjoying his evening while the prisoners suffered only added to Steele’s anger.
He and the others would simply have to bide their time. With nothing else to do and hours on his hands, he thought about that word. Bide. Who had come up with that word, and what did it really mean, anyhow? Steele decided that if it meant nervously chewing gum and occasionally leaving his observation post in the brush outside the fence to prowl restlessly in the confines of the clearing, where the raiding party lay hidden, then he was biding, all right.
He looked around at the others, who were also passing the time as best as they could.
He had forbidden lights of any kind, as well as any smoking, lest the smell of tobacco smoke gave them away. The Japanese might not be expecting American raiders, but they were always on alert for attacks from Filipino guerrillas. The slightest clue might give them all away. Each extra hour that they hid here in the forest increased the risk exponentially, which was why the escape had to happen tonight.
So, he bided his time.
He had been reluctant to allow Deke to let himself be captured, fearful of his treatment at the hands of the Japanese, but it had seemed like the only option to get word to the prisoners and organize tonight’s escape. In hindsight, he was sure that the plan would either seem brilliant — or completely idiotic, depending on how things turned out.
Deke had been the only one among the men who had been capable of working from the inside out. Philly and Rodeo were good men, but they didn’t have the sand or the smarts to pull it off. Yoshio, or any of the guerrillas, for that matter, would likely have been killed outright as traitors. He couldn’t go himself, because then there might be no one to lead the operation, dooming it to failure. So in the end, when Deke had presented his plan and volunteered himself, Steele had agreed.
Had it all been a mistake?
To make matters worse, he also was missing out on Deke’s skill with a rifle. He would much rather have Deke targeting the watchtower through his scope, ready to take out the machine gunners if necessary. With Deke on the rifle, the machine-gun crew would have been dead the instant their fingers touched a trigger.
Instead, he had given that job to Philly. Philly was a good man, and he would do his best to get the job done if it came to it, but he wasn’t half the marksman that Deke was.
He smiled, remembering how Deke had dropped that Japanese officer back on the fight at the ridge leading to Ormoc. The officer had been something of a heroic figure to his own troops, standing tall and waving his sword, directing the attack on the American position. That officer had thought the Americans couldn’t shoot accurately from such a distance.
He’d been wrong about that. Deke had lined up his sights on a buttonhole in the officer’s tunic and put a bullet right through it. It had been an incredible shot to make in the middle of a battle, with bullets zipping around the sniper’s head and the furious cries of the attackers and the defenders ringing in his ears.
If the Japanese had been tough on Deke after he had surrendered, he had no doubt that the farm boy could take it. Deke was like one of those knots that you ran into when trying to split a piece of oak for firewood. As a leader of men, Steele knew well enough that stubbornness was a quality that could work against a man. However, applied in the right circumstances, sheer stubbornness was a gift without equal.
He had no doubts about Deke’s ability in leading the prisoners out from the confines of the camp.
However, Steele wasn’t aware of a major crack in their plan. In fact, it was more like a canyon than a crack.
What he had not seen as he kept his vigil, because it had grown too dark, was Deke being hurled inside the hot box. As far as he knew, Deke was with the other prisoners, waiting for the midnight hour to arrive so that he could lead them out of the compound.