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He picked out a tunnel in the greenery that he could fire an arrow through. On the other end of the tunnel were a couple of Filipino fighters. They were totally unsuspecting targets. Even under the circumstances, Yamagata felt a little thrill go through him.

He nocked an arrow and released. The enemy fighter went down, his eyes wide with shock, an arrow jutting from the base of his neck.

Yamagata nocked another arrow. He reminded himself not to rush. Instead, he drew the arrow back and held it, feeling the full, coiled strength of the bow shivering like a straining muscle in his hand. Oblivious, the fighter pivoted to reload his rifle, presenting himself square on to Yamagata.

He released, and the arrow flashed through the tunnel of greenery.

The fighter that he had been aiming at remained standing. Yamagata grunted in disappointment, thinking at first that he had missed. Then he saw the fighter stare down at the copious amounts of blood now running through a hole in his torso. Yamagata realized that the arrow had struck with such force that it had gone right through the Filipino. He watched as the man coughed up blood and then sank to his knees.

Yamagata had no more clear targets through the undergrowth. He did not want to waste arrows that would be deflected by the twigs, leaves, and branches. He put down his bow and drew his pistol from the holster on his hip.

To his men hiding in the brush nearby, he gave the order to fire.

Their first volley was devastating, cutting down several of the Filipinos, who were taken by total surprise. His men worked their bolt-action rifles and fired again.

The element of surprise did not last long. After all, the guerrillas were experienced jungle fighters. They managed to hold back the Japanese advancing up the path while also dealing with the fact that they had been flanked.

Bullets tore through the greenery where the Japanese hid. Yamagata threw himself flat. Nearby he heard one or two of his men cry out as they were hit.

From the direction of the trail, he heard a shout as several of the guerrillas launched themselves into the forest, their long bolo knives flashing. It was more than evident how they planned to deal with any Japanese they caught.

Yamagata crawled away, figuring that his men would have to fend for themselves. In the thick brush, he didn’t even know where they were — until he heard the scream of a soldier being dealt with by a razor-edged bolo knife.

Out of nowhere, an enemy fighter appeared a few feet away. Yamagata was practically on his belly, so he thought that the man might pass him by. But then the Filipino looked down and caught sight of him. Giving a grunt of surprise, the guerrilla lifted his arm to slash at Yamagata, but the colonel fired his pistol at nearly point-blank range. The bolo knife fell from the enemy fighter’s grasp, and his body slumped into the undergrowth.

Yamagata kept crawling until the sounds of the struggle faded and he was confident that he was alone. Slowly, he got back to his feet. He had dragged his bow along with him. He took a moment to reload his pistol, just in case he still had to deal with any more of the guerrilla fighters.

But Yamagata did not circle back and return to his own troops. Instead, he pressed deeper into the forest, following what he hoped was a parallel course to the jungle trail that the American raiders were using as their line of retreat. He knew that his men were in capable hands with Sergeant Matsueda, and even, he reluctantly had to admit, with Lieutenant Osako. Those two would press the pursuit for now.

What Yamagata planned to do was get close enough to the trail to use his bow and arrow to pick off the raiders. He felt empowered by his success just now with the bow, which had been silent and deadly.

Colonel Yamagata was on the hunt, just as he had once done as a boy. Back then, he had pursued deer and wild boar, but the game he hunted now was far more enticing.

* * *

On the trail, Father Francisco was busy directing his fighters with one breath and cursing the enemy with the next. He had long since stopped being conflicted about his ire toward the enemy. Of course he was careful not to use the Lord’s name in vain, but he stuck with some of the American slang he had picked up. “Sons of bitches!” he shouted toward the jungle. The sight of the priest, dressed in his homespun brown robes, shaking his fist at the enemy and cursing, was equal parts comical and terrifying as he poured the wrath of God upon them.

Some of his men raced into the trees to deal with the soldiers that had flanked them, and he turned his attention to the dead and dying men on the trail.

“Madre de Dios!” Father Francisco cried out, taking in the horrifying sight of a man with an arrow jutting from his neck. It was bad enough to see a man die from a bullet, but seeing a man shot with an arrow was a new experience — one that the priest wished that he could have avoided.