“What now?” I whispered as we edged back into the bush.
“I’d bet the Japs have that area covered,” Johnston said as he scanned the opposite bank through his binoculars. “It’s the only place the LCs can get to. Too risky to cross here.”
“Not to mention how deep the river looks,” Kaz said, displaying his standard unease with any water deeper than a bathtub.
“Yeah,” Johnston said. “We’ll find a crossing farther upriver.”
We crept back from the river’s edge and began the slow process of hoofing it through the dense bush. There was a narrow, overgrown footpath along the river, but that was an invitation to an ambush. Or maybe booby traps set up to warn the enemy of our approach. Machetes would have helped, but slashing at the choking greenery is damn noisy, especially when there are thirty or so guys having at it.
So we pushed past fronds as big as elephant’s ears, stumbled over giant roots snaking out from tree trunks covered in vines; orchids in pale yellows and greens dazzled the eye while black ooze threatened to pull the boots from our feet with each step.
Ahead of us, Ariel raised a hand, signaling halt. The other he cupped around his ear.
Voices. The sound of footsteps on hard-packed ground.
People were on the path and they weren’t speaking English. A small group, chatting. Probably no officers or noncoms around to enforce silence. They were complacent. Happens when you think no one’s around except the guy you just butchered and left tied to a tree.
Johnston handed me his Thompson and put a finger to his lips for silence. He drew his Ka-Bar combat knife and tapped several men on the shoulder, Sergeant Trent among them, as he passed silently through the hidden platoon. Along with Ariel armed with his machete, they moved in crouched steps toward the path. In seconds they were gone, swallowed by the dense growth.
The sounds from the path drew closer. I figured five or six men, from the tromp of feet, the creak of leather, the faint sounds of packs, canteens, and other gear bouncing against bodies in motion. I guessed their rifles were slung. Maybe their intelligence was faulty, maybe they were cocky, or simply thought they could deal with outnumbered Americans.
The rhythmic sounds of movement stopped, replaced by a sudden rustle of leaves, grunts, thrashing, one high-pitched cry cut off before it could carry above the jungle canopy, and finally, the gurgling sound of a man choking on his own blood.
Trent pushed through the bush, signaling with one bloody hand, and we came forward, each end of the column spreading out on the trail, watching for other Japs.
There had been six. All were dead, except for one man who would be in seconds. He clutched his throat, blood bubbling out between his fingers, rivulets of red flowing between clenched teeth. The others were strewn about the trail, most with their big Arisaka rifles across their shoulders. Slit throats had sent streams of blood pumping out, spraying the green leaves chrysanthemum red.
Ariel and Johnston were busy cleaning their Ka-Bars. A sergeant stood over the dying Jap, watching as he cleaned his knife on the man’s service cap.
“Is that a stiletto?” I asked, as the Jap tried to speak, forming nothing but bubbles of blood that popped pink, as if he were chewing bubble gum.
“Yeah,” the sergeant said, offering it to me by the hilt, his eyes riveted on the man at his feet. “Traded with an Aussie commando for it. Think this is one of the guys who did that to Gallaher?”
“Hard to say for sure,” I said. “But I’d guess so. There were only bayonet wounds on his body. No sword slashes. Which suggests no officers present, same as with these poor bastards.”
“I heard you were a detective,” he said. “Pretty smart for an army man.” He rolled the Jap facedown with his boot, then kicked his arm away from where he held the wound. An arterial gush of blood dampened the jungle floor, and then silence.
“This isn’t the same as those marine stilettos,” I said, motioning for Kaz to join us. “It has a hard wood pommel, bigger than the metal one on the marine version.”
“That is the same size as the wound in Daniel’s skull,” Kaz said as he studied the weapon. “Porter said he had owned an Australian commando knife, but lost it.”
“I bet I know exactly when and where he lost it,” I said, handing the weapon back to the sergeant. “In that small inlet off the beach where he killed Daniel. If we have the bottom searched as far out as a man could throw one of these, we’ll have the murder weapon.”
The bodies were dragged off the path, their weapons tossed into the river. We continued on, sweat soaking our clothes, the air so thick and hot it felt like walking through a steam bath filled with snakes, lizards, and spiders. I took a swig from my canteen, the water hot and tasteless.
A distant pop pop pop sounded, echoing from the hills above. More gunfire, and soon the rapid hammering of a machine gun joined in. We strained to determine the direction, sure only that it wasn’t behind us. It seemed to be everywhere else.
“Choiseul Bay is that way, due west,” Johnston said, studying his compass as he conferred with Ariel, who nodded his agreement without bothering to look at the device. “That’s where Major Bigger and his men were to attack a Jap base in the harbor.”
“Could that be the attack?” Kaz asked.
“No,” Johnston said, checking to see if Ariel agreed. He did, giving the slightest nod. “The harbor is too far away. But they could be fighting their way back to the river. We need to cross here and find them.”
“Agri,” Ariel said. “Yumi faetem, kill Japan man gut.” With that, he beckoned us forward, to the river. I had to think about what he’d said, and then I agreed, too. You and me, we fight ’em.
Within minutes Ariel had led us to the riverbank. Johnston sent two men over first, wading in waist-deep water to the other side. They gave the all-clear sign and we forded the river, which was much calmer than it had been downstream. Kaz didn’t even look concerned, until a water snake rippled its way along the line of men. That got everyone moving fast.
We spread out, moving up a ridge, scrambling over moss-covered rock that dripped water from between rocky seams, making the going as slippery as it was tough. When we reached the top, I was about done in. A grueling march, too little sleep, and heat that wrung out every ounce of strength had left me limp on the ground, gasping for air. Only the volleys of gunfire got me to roll over and scan the ground below. The sounds were closer now, more distinct, with each weapon sending its signature rhythm echoing out into the valley below. The dull crump of mortars mingling with the rapid blam blam blam of M1s and the slower but steady cracks of the bolt-action Arisakas.
“Up there,” Johnston said as he swept the hills with his binoculars, one arm extended to the next ridgeline. I could see the explosions, small bursts in the thick green cover. Those were the mortars, but it was impossible to tell whose or where the opposing forces were. Directly below us, stretching off to our left, was the plantation we’d glimpsed earlier: rows of coconut trees extending to the river’s edge, undulating with the landscape, cresting over a small hill below us. At the edges, the jungle had already begun encroaching on the cleared land, tall shoots of tiger grass overcoming the palm trees and erasing the precision of the planted rows.