Mindanao, Near Jolo
The air was hot enough to sear flesh from bone. Even under the patchy jungle canopy, the U.S. column shimmered in the haze.
Helmets dull with sweat, Springfield rifles slung loose, eyes darting to every shadow.
The captain in charge of the company wiped his brow with a trembling hand. Thirty days of patrols.
Thirty days of endless humid hell, chasing ghosts through valleys that stank of rot and gun oil. Then the jungle erupted.
A sharp crack-crack-crack of Mauser rifles split the silence. A corporal two steps ahead pitched forward without a sound; his helmet bouncing twice on the packed dirt.
Another volley tore through the company's flank, blood misting into leaves.
"Contact left! Pour it on!" the captain screamed, yanking his pistol from its holster. But already his men were scrambling, firing wild into the green void.
Somewhere to the right, a Browning automatic rifle chattered desperately.
