In the foxholes all around Deke, similar battles were taking place, each fight a primitive struggle for survival that was as old and familiar as warfare itself. It was blade against bayonet, fist against boot. Worst of all were the sounds as the firing died away, replaced by the noise of close-quarters combat. Grunts and curses filled the night. The very air seemed to crackle with the grating of rifles being used like fighting sticks and clubs. There was the dull ringing of heavy blows against helmets. They heard the horrible wet sounds of a long blade sliding into flesh, followed by the final sigh of air escaping from a lung or rib cage. Screams of rage mixed with the death cries of those who were being stabbed or clubbed.
Mercifully, the Japanese tide broke and receded. What was left of the enemy retreated down the slope. A few madmen refused to retreat, throwing themselves into foxholes, stabbing wildly with bayonets. A few hurled grenades before dying in a burst of gunfire. One enemy officer flailed around him with a sword, shouting wildly, before he was gunned down, hit by two or three shots almost instantaneously. He spun like a top and fell.
And then the terrible banzai charge was over, what was left of its broken wave draining back down the slope. The rest of the night passed quietly, except for the moans of the wounded enemy scattered across the slope. A few of the GIs had been stabbed or shot, with medics and other soldiers tending to them as best as they could. Not a single GI had been killed outright. The destruction of the banzai charge had been a stunningly lopsided victory.
Deke unscrewed the cap of his canteen and took a drink. Only then did he notice that his hands were shaking. They had been rock steady during the fight, working the bolt action of his rifle smoothly.
By the time he put the canteen back, the shaking had stopped. With so much adrenaline running through their veins, the reactions of the other men ran the gamut, from blank stares to uncontrollable giggling. Nobody judged or thought much of it — they were all just glad to be alive.
They reloaded and prepared for another attack, but the enemy did not return.
The morning light only verified the destruction. Lieutenant Steele gave orders to make a count of the dead.
“One hundred and sixty-two,” Rodeo reported back.
Steele shook his head and found Deke’s gaze. “That worked a little too well,” he said. “Sure, we got the Japanese to attack us, but they almost killed us all in the process. Somebody remind me not to listen to Deke and Philly next time.”
Looking out at so many enemy dead, Deke had to agree. It had been a close thing. “I wouldn’t listen to me either,” he said quietly.
If the battle was being slowly won in the mountain ridges and jungle-covered valleys on Leyte, the fight for the Philippines itself was just about to reach its most difficult stage, and Patrol Easy was being thrust into the middle of it.
The Japanese were firmly dug in throughout the capital city of Manila. The troops here were fanatical, including elements of the elite Teishin Shudan, the Japanese special forces. Those tough bastards were the equivalent of airborne troops, and they had seen a lot of action across the Pacific and China. The thought of crossing bayonets with the Americans just made them smile. The Japanese defenders planned to fight for every paving stone of the city streets and make the Americans pay a high price in blood for every block. As defenders, every advantage was theirs.
“When they come, we will be ready,” Major Wataru Tanigawa announced with satisfaction, surveying the grounds of the University of Santo Tomas. Although the university was now filled with civilian prisoners deemed a threat to the Japanese occupiers, care had been taken for its outward defense in addition to keeping the prisoners contained. During the last few months, Tanigawa had seen to it that machine-gun nests were placed at strategic locations, fortified with sandbags. Barbed wire surrounded most of the university grounds. Spider holes and hideouts had been prepared for individual snipers. Of course, he knew that the arrival of US tanks and artillery might make short work of these defenses.
Tanigawa did not share it with Sergeant Inaba, but he was less interested in dying than he was in living — or living long enough to put up a good fight. Although he saw himself as a modern samurai warrior, he was also a pragmatist, his attitude being,
