The enemy began to fall back and scatter, some returning toward the legislative building and others simply melting into the rubble and ruins. The surrounding streets were filled with smoke and debris. The destruction was immense, several more dead bodies now scattered in the rubble.
Amid the chaos, Steele heard a familiar voice calling his name. It was Danilo, their fearless Filipino guide. He was on his knees, both hands gripping his midsection as if trying to hold something in. Blood so thick and dark that it was more like chocolate pudding oozed from between his fingers. The lieutenant started to reach for the man’s hands to pull them away so that he could apply a bandage, but then he hesitated, afraid of what he might find. The lieutenant was far from squeamish, having seen just about everything you could see in terms of how a human being could be killed in this war, but even he had to admit that it was an ugly wound.
“Dammit, Danilo. Do not die on me. That’s an order.”
The tough guerrilla just shook his head. As usual, it was unclear just how much English he understood. But the severity of his wound was clear enough. However, there was no fear in his eyes, just resignation.
Juana was suddenly beside them. She propped her Arisaka rifle, its barrel smoking hot from the multiple rounds she had put through it, against a block of broken concrete and reached for her medical kit. “Go on,” she said. “I will stay with him. There is nothing more you can do.”
Knowing that she was right, but still reluctant to leave their loyal guide, he gave Danilo’s shoulder a squeeze. A final look passed between them; then Danilo nodded and looked away, as if giving the lieutenant permission to go.
There weren’t any medics to call because Patrol Easy was on its own. It wouldn’t have mattered. Danilo’s ragged breathing indicated that he was now struggling to stay alive.
Steele filled with grief and anger. Danilo had been through a lot with Patrol Easy — they might not have survived without him. The lieutenant promised himself that he would make sure that whatever happened to Danilo wouldn’t be in vain.
If any of them survived. Bullets still whined overhead, bouncing off the rocks and debris around him. It was a wonder that the rest of them hadn’t already ended up like Danilo. I really ought to keep my head down, Steele thought. But he’d be damned if he did that, not when his men needed him.
The lieutenant got to his feet.
He looked around, seeing that what was left of his patrol had lost momentum. There was Rodeo, on his belly, firing shot after shot at the Japanese. Yoshio was doing the same, hurling insults in Japanese at the enemy between squeezing off rounds. Captain Oatmire was firing from behind a chunk of stone. The guerrillas had seemingly melted into the debris, taking cover wherever they could.
No, they couldn’t stop. If they halted their advance now, the Japanese might be able to regroup. He glanced at his watch. To make matters worse, the bombardment was set to recommence soon. The last thing he wanted to do was leave his patrol out here in the open, exposed, once the Long Toms finally resumed their deadly work.
“Let’s go!” Lieutenant Steele shouted, leading his patrol forward. Soon they were a hundred feet from the front door, then fifty, then climbing the wide stone steps leading toward the entrance.
A Japanese sprang from the shadows near the door of the legislative building, running at the lieutenant with a fixed bayonet. Steele fired the shotgun, and that was the end of that particular problem.
Moments later they were inside the building itself. Any able-bodied soldiers seemed to have fled out the back like the rats the Americans thought they were. The lobby had been turned into a makeshift hospital, with Japanese dead lined up on one side and the still-living on the other.
“Japs!” Rodeo shouted, swinging his rifle at them.
“Don’t worry about them. They aren’t going to bother anybody,” Honcho said, giving him a shove toward the door.
Unarmed and helpless, the wounded watched them with furtive eyes, but Honcho and the others kept going, not even Yoshio giving them a second glance. They moved deeper into the building’s interior. The only thing he cared about was getting the prisoners out before the US Army rained the wrath of God down on everyone’s heads in the form of heavy artillery.
He heard a deep, booming voice ahead. “Don’t shoot!”
Seconds later, a tall figure appeared, leading the rest of the prisoners. A couple of the prisoners were wounded and had to be helped by the others.
“Is this everybody?” Steele asked.
“All present and accounted for,” the tall prisoner said. “All twelve of us, in various states of repair.”
“Then let’s get the hell out of here.”
They turned and headed out of the building, passing the silent wounded again.
“What about those wounded Japanese?” Rodeo asked anxiously.
“To hell with ’em,” Honcho replied, rushing past the men lying on blankets on the marble floor. “They’ll all be dead in about ten minutes, and so will we if we don’t get out of here.”
Juana was waiting for them on the steps. The lieutenant looked at her questioningly, but she shook her head.
Danilo was gone. Though it was no surprise, the finality of it hit the lieutenant hard. He pushed that thought down, not having time for it, and led the patrol back the way that they had come.
Out in the square, there was one more important piece of business waiting.
“Papa!” cried Roddy, who had crawled under a fallen column, keeping out of harm’s way just like Lieutenant Steele had told him to do.
“Son!”
The two embraced, a couple of tears leaving tracks in MacGregor’s dusty face.
Steele told himself that the reunion somewhat made up for Danilo. Life went on. He couldn’t help wondering who would grieve for their dead guide. Like so much about Danilo, the existence of any family that he’d had remained a mystery.
He glanced at his watch. Almost noon. Turning to the prisoners, he said, “We need to get out of here, and fast.”
The urgency in the lieutenant’s voice said it all. They did as they were told, or as best as they could. Rodeo and Yoshio, along with Captain Oatmire, jumped in to help the injured prisoners. At the edge of the square, they were rejoined by Deke and Philly, who hadn’t wasted any time getting off the roof of the bank building.
“You guys are a sight for sore eyes,” Philly said. “I was thinking—”
Whatever thought he’d wanted to share was interrupted by the high-pitched wail of incoming artillery. Right on schedule, the artillery officer was opening fire.
“Run!” Steele shouted.
The first shells hit, making the ground shake. The front corner of the legislative building shattered in a tremendous explosion that sent debris skyward.
Fortunately, the battered band of soldiers and prisoners had made it across the square.
“This way!” shouted Juana, leading them down an alley. They cut through one street after another, shells landing ever closer, and didn’t stop until they had reached the nearest gate of the walled city.
Behind them, what was left of the old city of Intramuros was being reduced to rubble, along with any remaining Japanese holdouts.
EPILOGUE
The stubborn Japanese resistance was no match for the determined artillery barrage. Wherever the enemy took refuge in the city, the building was simply leveled. While the approach was brutal to the city itself, it saved American lives that might have been lost in street-to-street fighting. The sturdy legislative building remained standing, but with the corners knocked off and the roof sagging, it resembled a collapsed soufflé. Any remaining Japanese within had either fled — or died when chunks of the building fell on their heads.
Admiral Iwabuchi had been the driving force behind the horrific battle that had destroyed the city. With the Americans closing in, Iwabuchi decided to commit suicide in the manner of a samurai warrior. Kneeling on the floor of the dirty dugout that served as his headquarters, Iwabuchi unbuttoned his naval officer’s tunic and used a tantō knife to slit open his own belly.
As Iwabuchi’s blood and offal ran out into the dirt, one of his staff officers then swung a sword with all his might, grunting with the effort of cutting off Iwabuchi’s head. It was not cleanly done, but then again, beheading was not something that he’d had the opportunity to practice. Shaking, with tears in his eyes, the younger officer then shot himself.
It wasn’t long before their bodies were found and identified. Ritual suicide was a gruesome and brutal act that was hard for the typical American soldier to fathom, but they had seen it done before. One of the intelligence officers used the toe of his boot to roll the head over and said, “That’s Iwabuchi, all right. It’s too bad the son of a bitch didn’t kill himself from the get-go and spare the whole damn city.”
With the city firmly in US control, word came down that Patrol Easy would be shipping out soon to rejoin the rest of the 77th Infantry Division.
But first there were a few goodbyes to make, starting with young Roddy and his father. Fortunately for them, their home had been spared from destruction, and the MacGregor family had been kept safe inside their walled compound.
“I can’t thank you enough for taking care of Roddy — and helping us get away from those damn Japanese,” MacGregor said as Patrol Easy gathered around. He looked as if he had finally gotten a decent meal and was no worse for wear, except for a bandage on his left ear where a Japanese bayonet had caught him during the scuffle on the rooftop of the legislative building.
“We couldn’t have done it without Roddy,” Lieutenant Steele said. “You have a brave son there.”