MacGregor stood against the wall closest to the hallway, just inside the door. He hefted the chair over his head.
His fellow prisoner went out in the hallway and made some fuss, gesturing for the guard to come into the room. From the angry noises made by the guard, it didn’t sound as if he was eager to comply. Finally, he shouted something irate and stomped into the room, bayonet at the ready.
Too late, he either sensed MacGregor behind him or felt the rush of air as sixty pounds of hand-carved chair descended in his direction. The guard started to turn, but not before MacGregor hit him with the chair.
The man went down as if he’d been poleaxed.
MacGregor sprang on top of him and delivered two swift punches for good measure. They hadn’t been necessary, but they sure felt good.
Littleton picked up the guard’s rifle. Clearly, it wasn’t his first time holding a weapon. He no longer looked so tired or defeated. It was amazing how holding a rifle gave a man hope and power over his destiny.
“Let’s go,” MacGregor said.
He started toward the stairs, his plan being to lead them down, but just as quickly he realized that wasn’t going to work.
They could hear the Japanese on the stairs below, sounding as if they were coming up, maybe hauling ammunition to the machine gunner on the roof — or coming to finish off the prisoners. MacGregor glanced down and spotted Sergeant Inaba coming up the stairs.
The only way to go now was up. “Follow me!” he said.
He didn’t have a plan. Maybe, just maybe, they could overpower the machine gunners and barricade themselves up there, hoping that the Americans could finally somehow overwhelm the Japanese defenses.
They ran up the stairs, MacGregor taking the steps two at a time, the group getting spread out because some of them were weak from the lack of food and water.
There was a shout from below — they had been spotted. A bullet cracked up the stairwell, then another. Littleton fired back and, judging by the shout of pain that followed, had managed to hit one of their pursuers, buying them precious minutes.
MacGregor’s long legs quickened the pace, taking the stairs three at a time.
More shots came from below.
Deke and Philly needed to improvise, now that their plan to get around behind the legislative building had been blocked by the Japanese outpost.
Deke looked around and saw the bank building where the patrol had found cover yesterday. An idea began to take shape. Without any sort of heavy weapons, they would have to do what snipers did best — pick off Japs. There was no time to waste. He looked over toward the rest of the patrol, who were being kept pinned down by the relentless fire from the Nambu machine gun on the roof of the legislative building. The machine gunners had gotten smart and piled up more sandbags, making them a difficult target from ground level in the square. If he and Philly could take out that machine gun, the rest of Patrol Easy might just have a fighting chance. To do that, they were going to have to get up higher.
“Come on,” Deke said. “Let’s get up on the roof of that bank building.”
Philly had also seen that the chances of their original plan working had fallen apart. He nodded, seeming to have read Deke’s mind. “If we can get up there, it’s gonna be like a shooting gallery for us.”
“That’s the idea.”
They scurried away through the rubble, shots chasing them. Some of the Japanese jeered, evidently thinking that Deke and Philly had turned tail and run — which in a sense they had. However, Deke was a strong believer in living to fight another day.
Reaching the front door of the bank building, they scrambled inside. El Banco de Manila featured a grand lobby with marble floors, tall Doric columns holding up the vaulted roof, and gleaming counters of polished wood with glass partitions separating the well-dressed clerks from the even-better-dressed customers. Tall windows, covered in ornately wrought iron bars that provided both security and beauty, filled the lobby with the sort of sunlight that encouraged scrutiny. Normally it was the sort of setting where Deke never would have felt comfortable in a million years. But now it was a war zone.
The marble floor was strewn with dust and broken glass from windows shattered by bomb blasts, though the ironwork remained. Birds flitted under the tall ceiling and had even begun to nest at the tops of the columns. Nature asserting itself where humankind had faltered. A puddle of congealed blood spread across one corner, evidence that someone had died there, and badly.
