Hunter Sniper

What the Japanese hadn’t counted on were the tanks. Once again, the tanks were the heroes of the hour, able to advance into a hail of machine-gun fire. Even fire from the antiaircraft guns that the Japanese had turned into ground defense weapons bounced off the tanks’ thick steel hides.

The tanks rolled right up to the defensive emplacements and opened fire at nearly point-blank range, obliterating the enemy defenses. For the most part, the tanks refrained from using flamethrowers for fear of incinerating the largely stick-built city — the resulting inferno might trap any civilians or US soldiers within.

Frustrated Japanese defenders attempted to take out the tanks by rushing them with so-called sticky bombs, or they tried to hurl satchel charges under the tanks. However, the infantry moving forward in support of the tanks made quick work of the attackers, turning their efforts into nothing more than another suicide mission. Flesh never won against steel.

The Japanese fought back strongly as ever, employing interlocking fields of fire and rushing reinforcements into the gaps to slow the American advance. However, the army advance moved forward like a grindstone, wearing down the Japanese despite their determination.

Powerful as they were, the tanks could do only so much. Many of the Japanese were scattered around the town in smaller groups, often in the houses, fighting as independent units. A few tanks couldn’t deal with them all. In places, the streets narrowed to the point where the tanks couldn’t reach some of the houses being held by the Japanese.

That job fell to the soldiers. They were forced to go house to house, fighting their way up the streets, each dwelling having been turned into its own version of a fortress. It was a slow and bloody process, considering that the Americans didn’t want to leave behind any defenders who could literally shoot them in the back.

“What a mess,” said Philly, grabbing some shade alongside Deke during a lull in the fighting. “I feel like we’re fighting in all directions.”

“That’s because we are,” Deke said. His head was swimming from the fever, and he took a drink of water from his canteen, hoping that it would help quench his thirst. It didn’t. “I reckon we’re just in the eye of the hurricane.”

More shots spattered around them, and they ran for cover.

* * *

The remaining soldiers of Patrol Easy had plunked themselves down nearby, spread out along a low stone wall. Yoshio was nearest to Deke, then Rodeo and Alphabet.

Danilo sat a little apart as always, if “sitting” was the right term. He tended to squat on his haunches. It didn’t look very comfortable to Deke, but it was how most of the other Filipino guerrillas sat when they were out in the open or in the jungle. Danilo kept his rifle across his knees and his mean-looking bolo knife slung across his back.

Deke felt functional despite the fever, but it didn’t help that his movements seemed to be taking place in a fog. He also felt oddly removed from the situation, almost as if he were watching someone else from a distance, maybe an actor in a movie. Again, fever and exhaustion were to blame.

He shook his head, trying to get back to reality. He needed to get with the program, and fast.

If he wasn’t careful, he was going to have an eternity to catch up on his sleep.

Somehow a handful of rear-echelon troops had gotten mixed up with them, including the skinny clerk, Private Rafferty, that Deke recognized from the fight back at the ridge. It was a reminder of how thin the division was spread, when every man was needed for the fight. There would be no reinforcements coming — every spare soldier in the division was in the field.

Things in Ormoc might quickly go south if the Japanese turned out to have more men than expected.

“Look at that. You’re still alive,” Deke said to the clerk.

“You sound surprised,” Rafferty replied, offering him a lopsided grin.

“Keep your head down, and don’t do anything stupid if you want to stay that way.”

The clerk gave him a quick nod to show that he understood. “These Japanese don’t know when to quit.”

“Don’t you worry, kid. They’re saying the same thing about us right about now.”

Missing from the group was Lieutenant Steele, who was trying to bring up the rest of the company. They were a couple of blocks back, held up by a hail of machine-gun fire. The dreaded Nambu machine guns hammered away, their deadly rhythm making them sound like bloodthirsty woodpeckers. Tap, tap, tap.

To make matters worse, the Japanese had planned their fields of fire for maximum efficiency. They also set traps, luring the advancing American units with a lull in the fire, then opening up when they had multiple targets in front of their guns.