Broken Jewel - [World War II 05]

by David L. Robbins

  The lieutenant led the platoon off the beach before the last amtrac powered onto the point. Remy veered off the path to find a soft place to lie down. He found it at the fat base of a banyan tree. He plucked an armful of ferns, gathered it over him, and slept into the dusk.

  ~ * ~

  Chapter thirty-six

  A

  N HOUR before midnight, a lovely and grim young woman arrived at the guerrilla camp. Three Filipino fighters accompanied her to Colonel Romeo, who embraced her.

  “Magdalena,” he said beside the fire, “this is Sergeant Bolick.” Bolick stood to shake her hand. “Ma’am.”

  All three sat. One of the guerrilla boys disappeared to bring her food. The other two faded back to their posts in the dark.

  “I came alone.”

  Romeo asked, “How can that be?”

  “I tried. No one listened.”

  During the day, Romeo had spoken to Bolick of his wife. He called her as brave as any guerrilla. In the steady light of the campfire, she appeared shaken. She folded her arms in her lap, believing she had failed somehow. Romeo took her hand. This did not lift: her gaze.

  “Tell me.”

  Magdalena patted her husband’s hand before releasing it. She addressed Bolick.

  “Sergeant. Thank you for being here.”

  “My pleasure, ma’am.”

  “Tomorrow, during the raid. If there is a battle with the Japanese, the people of our village may be in the way. I know you’re here to free your own, but please.”

  “I understand. All I can guarantee is that we’ll do everything we can to get in and out as clean as possible. If things fall our way, the fight’ll stay just in the camp.”

  “I will pray for that, Sergeant.”

  “I’ll join you, ma’am.”

  Food arrived. Magdalena set the bowl at her feet.

  “I knocked on fifty, sixty doors,” she said to Romeo. “I told them the Americans are coming. You should leave. Go into the jungle where Romeo is. He will keep you safe.”

  She paused to swipe a fingertip beneath her eyes. The fire leaped and a gust of smoke crossed Bolick.

  “They all said the same thing. The Americans are coming, well be safe then. No, I said. The Americans are coming only to rescue their own countrymen at the camp. The village could be caught in the middle. If that happens it’ll be a battlefield. You have to leave.”

  Magdalena pleaded with her husband as though he were one of the people in the village. Futility glistened down her cheeks.

  “What about reprisals? The Japanese have convinced themselves every Filipino is a guerrilla. They’ll believe the villagers helped the Americans rescue the camp. What will you do if the Japanese come here for revenge? Will you run then when it’s too late? Run now. Run with me.”

  Romeo took down his wife’s hands to hold them in his own lap. She halted her plea.

  “I came alone.”

  ~ * ~

  Escorted by Gusto of Terry’s Hunters and General of the Fil-Americans, the thirty-man recon platoon arrived out of the night.

  Bolick rose to greet Lieutenant Kraft; and his men. The lieutenant was one of the few men in the 511th who came close to Bolick’s size.

  “Good work, Sergeant,” Kraft told him. “It’s almost game time.”

  “Ready when you say, Lieutenant.”

  Bolick shook hands with the six sergeants in the platoon. He knew none of these men and was struck by the ruggedness of each. Every recon man hefted at least fifty pounds of weaponry: Ml rifle or carbine, bayonet, pistol, phosphorus, incendiary and fragmentation grenades, knives, and ammunition. Bolick carried a radio of similar weight, but none of Kraft’s men looked like they’d blink if he added his burden to theirs. Three of the recon men, Kraft included, lugged bazookas.

  Quickly, Romeo ceded his authority in the camp to Kraft. He sat with Gusto, one on either side of Magdalena. Romeo’s guerrillas, as many as a hundred, filtered into the glittering circle of firelight. With them came the internees Tuck and Bascom. Both appeared rested. Along with the guerrillas, they took seats on the earth. Kraft waited for all to settle before speaking.

  He thanked the guerrilla commanders for coming to Nanhaya. He made mention of Gusto and the help his Hunters had given ferrying the recon platoon across the bay, and Romeo’s PQOG for the valuable intel they’d been gathering and sending to 11th Airborne through Sergeant Bolick.

  “This is your last briefing, gentlemen. After this, we’ll get into position by dawn and wait for H-hour.”

  Kraft reviewed the assignments for the several guerrilla units. The Hukbalahaps and the Chinese Squadron were already moving into place around the drop zone east of the camp, to defend the perimeter at H-hour while the hundred-plus paratroopers would land and regroup. Marking’s Fil-Americans had responsibility for securing San Antonio beach from the twenty Japanese troops stationed there, then set up roadblocks to hold the beachhead until a battalion of the 511th arrived in a fleet of amtracs.

  General, the peacock commander of the Fil-Americans, stood and took a bow. Kraft continued.

  Romeo’s PQOG would provide guides for the recon platoon to the camp, then take up positions between the barbed wire and the drop zone. Gusto’s Hunters would form the main guerrilla force assisting the recon platoon in the assault on the camp itself.

  Next, the lieutenant addressed his own men. He broke his platoon into six teams, each led by one of his sergeants. The first team would mark the drop zone at 0658 hours with green smoke canisters. Once the paratroopers were on the ground and organized, they’d lead them into the camp. A second team had the task of marking the landing beach at San Antonio for the amtracs. The remaining four teams were given specific points of attack for the raid on the camp. Every guard tower and pill box was targeted. For himself and his squad, Kraft took the job of knocking out the pair of pillboxes and six guards at the main gate.

  Romeo was to assign eight to twelve guerrillas to each team, and another dozen to the squad tasked with holding the beach for the amtracs.

  Kraft raised both hands, encompassing every soldier and guerrilla present. “Now listen close. On your approach to your positions, under no circumstances will you return enemy fire. This is an absolute order. Do not give away your positions. Let the Japs think they’ve heard animals in the bushes and the ravine. If any of your men get hit, carry them out of there. Leave no evidence that you’re in the area. If the Japs catch our scent, they’ll start mowing down internees before we can stop them. Understood?”

  A hundred and thirty men answered, “Yes.” Bolick did not respond because he did not have an assignment. His job as signalman was pivotal to communications, but he wanted a role in the fighting itself.

  Before he could get speak, Bascom got to his feet.

  “What about me and Tuck?”

  In the firelight, Kraft strode to the thin boy. He clapped a hand on Bascom’s shoulder to walk him to the recon squad assigned to the southern approach to the camp.

  “He’s yours,” Kraft said to the sergeant.

  Bascom sat with the recon soldiers. The team greeted him with hard pats on the back and head.

  Kraft pointed, curling a finger. “Tuck?”

  The boy stood. Kraft guided him by the shirtsleeve to sit at the fire beside Bolick.

  “Tuck here,” Kraft said to Bolick, “knows the camp better’n anybody. He’s yours, Sergeant. I’ll give you four more from my platoon. Commander Gusto will assign you ten of his guerrillas. When that first chute pops, Tuck will lead your squad to the spot where the guards keep their guns while they’re exercising. You run like hell. Don’t stop to shoot anybody, just get your asses there first. Then shoot ‘em. Got it?”

  “Roger that.”

  Tuck beamed. Gusto, Magdalena, and Romeo all reached for the boy in congratulations.

  Gusto said to Bolick, “I’ll give you ten of my fastest runners.”

  “Thanks.”

  The boy grinned at Romeo. “Tell them I said ‘
Tumulin.’”

  Magdalena translated for Bolick. He asked Tuck, “And what do you plan to do when you get there first, hotshot? Say boo?”

  Bolick unbuckled the shoulder holster for his Colt .45 automatic pistol. He handed the big sidearm and harness to the kid.

  “Here. Say boo with this.”

  ~ * ~

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  T

  HE TWO dozen bancas made no sound sailing in the dark unless they bumped hulls or outriggers. The Filipino captains snapped at one another to keep their distance.

  Tal rode in the bow of a reeking fishing boat, in the middle of the fleet. An hour ago, Bolick had said only “pee-yew” when he climbed aboard. The big sergeant and four recon men pinched their noses in disgust, then settled in stoically. Tal tried to sit beside Bolick for whispered conversation, to calm his own nerves. The stench drove him forward, where the breeze hit him before it swept over the century of dead fish stained in the bancas beams.

  He fiddled with the shoulder harness for the pistol Bolick had given him. Tal drew the Colt, practicing with the weight and balance. The gun needed both hands to hold steady. He dropped the magazine the way Bolick showed him and thumbed the cartridges of the seven rounds. Tal imagined Nagata on the other end of the barrel.

  For an hour the boats traced the black shoreline. The vessels dodged fishing traps and great clusters of water hyacinths. The four recon men in the boat with him had barely spoken to him at the guerrilla camp. They slouched in the belly of the banca with their helmets hiding their eyes. Tal leaned over the side to watch the prow split the bay.

  One at a time, the fleet turned into the narrow mouth of a river and dropped sail. The lanterns of a small village glowed through the trees.

  “San Antonio,” the skipper said. “Out.”

  The recon men and Bolick slipped into the knee-deep water. Tal removed his sneakers so he wouldn’t lose them in the mucky bottom.

  On the beach, the recon soldiers split into squads with the hundred guerrillas. A dozen of Romeos PQOG guerrillas emerged from the nearby village to guide the raiders. Tal and Bascom found each other on the beach.

  “This is it,” Tal said. “Long time coming.”

  “See you in the camp, lad. I wish Donnelly were here for this.”

  “That goes for a lot of folks, I reckon.”

  “Well, keep your head down.”

  “I’ll be glad to keep it on.”

  Bascom asked, “You goin’ for the girls?”

  “Yeah, as best I can.”

  “Good luck, Tuck.”

  Bascom linked up with his sergeant. Bolick collected Tal.

  The big radioman gathered his squad around him. Gusto’s ten guerrillas were a mix of older, hardened men and boys Tal’s age. Half wore shoes. All were armed with a rifle and bolo. These were the men Romeo said were his swiftest. Mingled with them, Kraft’s heavily armed Americans looked like titans.

  Bolick said, “We’ve got four miles to Los Baños.” He addressed Romeo’s two PQOG guides waiting nearby. “You know the way, right?”

  “We all do.”

  “Good. You two go in front. Tuck and me will follow.” Bolick assigned a pair of guerrillas to walk between each of the four recon men. This way, if the staggered column were interrupted for any reason, each soldier would have a two-man team to guide him to the camp.

  “Remember what the lieutenant said. No noise, no response to the Japs. We’ll regroup in Boot Creek at 0600.”

  The small beach began to empty. Merged squads of soldiers and guerrillas dispersed into the scrub. Bolick’s two guides set out. Tal strode beside the big sergeant.

  Bolick pointed at the .45 strapped to Tal’s chest. “You getting’ used to that gat?”

  “No.”

  “Wait’ll a Jap aims his at you. You’ll get the feel pretty quick. Just hold tight, she’s got a kick.”

  In the shallow water, the bancas hoisted sail and glided away. Romeo’s guides led Bolick’s team off the sand. Within a hundred yards, the waters of the bay and the village lights disappeared behind dense jungle. Tal caught no hint of any of the other raiding teams. Each was being led by a separate path to Los Baños.

  The first two miles of the journey went quickly. Above the bay, the sky cleared, and the squad traipsed by the pinlight of stars through plantations and open fields. When the ground became sodden and the dark earth glistened ahead, Tal told Bolick to take off his boots.

  Bolick balked. “I’m not taking off my boots.”

  “Then give me the radio. I’ve been through these paddies already and, trust me, you’re going in.”

  Tal kicked off his sneakers and held out his arms. Bolick had a choice to make, radio or boots.

  Bolick cursed, then squatted to untie his laces. The four recon men and Gusto’s ten guerrillas arrived from behind, waiting at the edge of the dike for the sergeant to go barefoot. Bolick told the soldiers to shed their jump boots. All four resisted; Bolick did not insist. The Filipinos held their tongues. Apparently the locals enjoyed watching Americans take a dunking.

  Tal and Bolick trailed their guides into the dark paddies. The berms were slick and narrow as before. Tal walked behind Bolick. The large man pulled the radio off his back to carry it by hand. If he slipped, he planned to toss it to Tal at the last moment. Tal worried that the big sidearm strapped to his shoulder would throw off his own balance.

  Crossing the paddies took another hour. Tal and Bolick stayed dry, though spattered in mud. Behind them in the dark, the recon men tumbled one at a time into the flooded paddies. The splashes grew more distant as Tal and Bolick progressed through the canals in advance of the rest of their squad. Faint sloshes and curses cut across the black vista of canals and dikes from the other six teams slogging their way elsewhere through the paddies, also in their jump boots.

  Reaching dry land, Bolick’s two guides were plainly disappointed. Bolick and Tal washed themselves from a trickling drainpipe. The big sergeant put on his boots. Dawn lay thirty minutes off. Only a mile and half was left to the camp, and ninety minutes to H-hour.

  Bolick and Tal waited for their squad to catch up. After five minutes, another pair of Romeo’s guides arrived, leading a soldier sopping from the waist down.

  “Son of a bitch,” the recon man said.

  “Where’s the others?”

  “Dunno, Sarge. I lost track.”

  “But they’re behind you, right?”

  “I reckon. That was like walking on a greased pig.”

  The wet recon man filled his canteen from the pipe. Bolick and Tal aimed their senses across the paddies. Not a sound floated out of the darkness beyond the buzz of mosquitoes.

  After ten minutes, Bolick told the recon soldier, named Cubby, to make his way to the camp with Tal.

  “Take the boy. Get in position. You know the job.”

  Cubby shook off the suggestion. “I’ll stay back. I know these guys. I’ll find ‘em and get ‘em there on time. Don’t worry, Sarge. You take the kid and go.”

  Bolick considered his watch and the pinking sky.

  “Yeah,” Tal said. He wanted Bolick beside him, no one else. “Let’s go.”

  Bolick tapped the face of his watch at Cubby. “0700.”

  The recon man glanced at his two Filipino escorts. The guerrillas fingered the hilts of their bolos. They didn’t want to miss the start of the attack either. They nodded.

  “We’ll be there,” Cubby said. “Go on.”

  Bolick shrugged into the straps of the radio. He pointed the way forward to Romeo’s two guides and trod off behind them. Tal moved beside the big sergeant.

  “You think they’ll make it?”

  “No idea. We’ll be okay, you and me.” Bolick reached across Tal’s chest to tap the big Colt handgun. “And this ol’ hand cannon. Let me ask you something. You said you’re fast.”

  “Yeah. I am.”

  “Good.” Bolick grinned in the rising light. “‘Cause I ain’t.”

&nb
sp; ~ * ~

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  R

  EMY GRIPPED the steel gunwale to leap overboard in case the machine sank. Around him, all ten armed paratroopers did the same.

  The amtrac lurched across Mamatid beach toward the shallows. Just one of these behemoths raised enough noise to wake the dead, Remy thought. Fifty-four of them surely ought to rouse the Japanese.