The Bluejacket's Manual

Before daybreak the next morning, the ship headed north through the San Jacinto Strait separating Leyte and Samar. The water’s width was barely a mile and for fourteen miles was surrounded by lush, green cliffs, between one and two thousand feet high. The most beautiful sight in the Philippines, Coles thought, but the silence here was always eerie, no matter what time of day the ship passed through it. San Jacinto Strait frightened him, actually. If Insurrectos ever placed artillery on the cliffs, they could lob shells down with abandon on any sitting duck below. Even the thought of a rifle barrage unnerved him. Safely through the strait, the Pampanga came into the Janabatas Channel then passed through Carigara Bay and the Buad Channels heading north to Catabalogan. There they headed back south toward Zumarraga on a course they hoped wouldn’t betray their true destination, approximately two miles from the city where a party could land. Pamp was on board the first cutter being lowered into the water when the landing site was selected. He loved shore duty. “The best thing about that mutt is it can smell a goo-goo a mile away,” Pop said. Pop also mustered to the Pampanga from the Albany along with Coles, Wee Willie and Miller as well as Ah Yee. “The garlic who owned him musta trained him good, whaddaya think, Coles?” “Good, yeah, but he’s a little too anxious for today’s party. We’re gonna have to sneak up on these guys Indian style unless they sneak up on us first. Bringing him would be like having a marching band announce us. No, poor Pamp better stay and help guard the boats.” Coles smiled, adjusted his Krag and followed Pamp over the side. Twenty five sailors were on the expedition to seize the rice or destroy it. “Pretty good of the Army to have a map leading the way to the goo-goo hideout,” Pop offered as they started the trek inland. “Yeah, they have their ways of getting what information they need,” Coles replied. “I just hope those little guys with the conches didn’t signal our presence. This is our surprise party,” he continued, referring to the surveillance system the Insurrectos used to keep track of gunboat patrols. The landing beach was sandy but narrow. The cutters paused in the shallow waters while Ensign Reynolds gave out final orders. Then the party headed up a narrow, jungle path in single file. Coles had the point, ten yards ahead or whatever distance the next sailor could keep him in sight. Up the trail half a mile, cross a ravine with lower and less dense foliage, then down to the bottom of a hill to a clearing where a guarded nipa hut contained their quarry. The Army estimated five to ten Insurrectos would be protecting the rice. Coles looked back while the trail was still straight to watch Pop pushing away the wet foliage that brushed the shoulders of the Bluejackets. Coles smiled and turned again so no one would ask later what was so funny. Pop hated jungle duty. The leeches, giant mosquitoes, spiders as big as your hand, he dreaded them all. And worse the moist air that could quickly soak your clothes to the skin and make your chest heave in search of a dry breath. At the peak of the trail, Coles stopped to look at the other side of the ravine. The unit would be exposed on the trek down and up. Three scouts would go out, cross the ravine, secure the top of the ridge then signal the remainder of the party to move across. All told, it took about half an hour for the scouts and the remainder of the party to cover the distance of about forty yards down and fifty up on a gentle incline. Scouts out again, Coles in the lead. He fixed his bayonet onto his Krag, while perspiration dripped into his eyes. He took off his cap, carefully tucking it into his belt, wiped his eyes with his neckerchief, then started down. Strange places these jungles. The moisture in the air that quickly soaked a uniform, could hide a man’s sweat of fear that a pending battle brings. “Help me God! Don’t let me or any other creature make a sound,” he prayed. There would be a guard somewhere close to a hut, situated in a small clearing in the jungle, about another fifty yards down. He moved, crouching down low enough to feel the twinge in his thighs with each step. The trail must have been used often enough recently, he thought, since it wasn’t overgrown or difficult to follow it. He had been on jungle trails before that just stopped and underbrush had to be hacked away with bolos before any further progress could be made. The Army guys told stories of their patrols in thick jungles where the advance party would hack their way through and the rear guard would watch the path that was just cleared grow back, closing the advance group in its tightened fist. What were only a few minutes seemed like dozens, as Coles slowly made his way until he saw a single, seated sentry, his bolo beside him, facing the hut visible ahead through the path, yards from the edge of the undergrowth. Coles closed this last distance quickly. Resting his Krag down, he knocked the sentry’s straw hat off and grabbed a handful of thick black hair. Pulling it back, he wrapped his right arm around his quarry’s throat. With his left forearm pressing down on the trapped neck and his hand pushing on his own bicep, Coles pulled back, took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, pressing his rigid body against his hopelessly squirming prey. After an eternal minute, an unconscious victim lay on the trail. Coles signaled the scouts watching and made his way down the last yards toward the edge of the clearing. Not much of his Navy training could help him now, even counting what he learned in Hong Kong. This was all instinct, the product of over three hundred years of European settlers in American, Americans, fighting throughout their history for land and survival.