Curly Levitt linked an arm through Barry’s as they left the commandant’s tent.

“That warning about crews joining the scrap doesn’t apply to us, does it?” he asked. “We’re short-handed already—with the Old Man and Babbitt in the hospital. Anyhow, the Rosy O’Grady won’t fly for a long time after this battle is over. We’re free to do just about what we please, aren’t we?”

“I get your point,” Barry answered with a grim smile. “You’re suggesting that the six of us form a sort of guerrilla squad and bag a few Japs on our own. Not a bad idea at all—if our squadron commander agrees. Let’s get him alone now and see what he thinks about it.”

Captain Loomis was not yet thirty years old, and next to flying a fighting ship he loved best a fight on the ground. His sympathy was easy to enlist.

“I can’t give you boys official permission to join the ground attack,” he told Barry and Curly, “but I won’t confine you to the post. If you pick up some rifles and grenades and wander off into the woods, that’s your affair. And I certainly wish you good hunting!”

“Thanks, Captain,” Barry replied as the two turned to leave. “If we find a Samurai sword in the bush, we’ll bring it back to you for a souvenir.”

The two young lieutenants found the rest of the Rosy’s crew at mess, and passed them the word to rendezvous in their tent. When the six were all together, Barry broached the plan.

“It’s better than sitting around and swatting mosquitoes,” he concluded. “And we know that the fight for Grassy Ridge will be tough. Six extra men might be quite a help.”

“You don’t have to sell us the idea, Lieutenant,” Fred Marmon spoke up. “After two days of taking Jap shellfire we’re all spoiling for a chance to dish it out. I know where we can get some hand grenades and side-arms tonight.”

“I know where there’s a case of tommy-guns,” said Tony Romani. “We can ‘requisition’ them, so to speak, this afternoon. And plenty of ammo, of course.”

“I’ll collect a few tin hats,” added Cracker Jackson, “and some iron rations and water canteens. Reckon you-all didn’t think of them.”

Danny Hale rose to his feet and spread his big fingers.

“If I get near enough to one of those yellow snakes,” he said slowly, “I’d like to match his jiu-jitsu tricks with an Apache wrestling hold. Anyhow, the six of us ought to have a pretty good time before the party’s over.”

Before supper the Rosy O’Grady’s crew had collected a young arsenal in their sleeping tent. It included bayonets and three sheath knives. Fred Marmon had brought six suits of green coveralls to replace their flying togs, and even some burnt cork to blacken their faces.

“We’ll have to fit a tin hat over that nice, clean bandage of yours, Lieutenant Blake,” he said. “Anything white would draw Jap bullets like a doggone magnet.... Look. If I set it on sidewise, like this, it doesn’t hurt your wound.”

“That’s fine, Fred,” Barry agreed. “I’d be cooler without the thing, but it will turn bullets. We’re all going to have a lot more sympathy for the infantry after this masquerade.”

The attacking troops set out as soon as the tropic night had shut down. Barry Blake and his friends joined a platoon that was pushing and slashing its way through the pitch-black jungle, with the help of a few dimmed flashlights. The vine-laced growth was so dense that at high noon only a green twilight would have penetrated it. Bayonets and machetes made openings through the worst tangles. Thorn bushes fought back, raking arms and legs mercilessly. Some of the advancing units used compasses to keep them headed toward Grassy Ridge. A few of them had the help of native guides. Most, however, followed the trails opened by the advance guard.

The Rosy’s crew took their turns with the machetes, cutting a path. The work, in that hot-house temperature, was exhausting. At any rate, the advancing troops had plenty of time. They reached the hill’s steep, rocky base at about midnight.

Here the word was passed to rest for an hour. Mosquito headnets were donned; emergency rations were opened. Weary, and sweating at every pore, the men stretched themselves out in such level spaces as they could find by groping on the damp ground.

Fred Marmon complained that the mosquitoes liked his blood better than that of any man in the Army. He declared that more of them were gathering from all over New Guinea, as the news spread.

“If they suck me to death,” he groaned, “dig a hole and bury my carcass quick so it won’t draw any more of them. Enough of these flying siphons could wipe out the whole company.”

Big Danny Hale also suffered aloud. He declared that the only difference between New Guinea mosquitoes and Zero fighting planes was that the bugs didn’t need an airfield. In size and poison, he insisted, they were about equal.

At the end of the hour, word was passed to start climbing the lower, wooded sides of the hill. This was to be a far slower and more cautious task than the first few hours of the advance. The Japs were less than a mile above them now. Not even dimmed flashlights would be permitted, except in the hands of platoon leaders. All movements would be as slow as a snail’s and, if possible, as silent.

By touch, and by occasional low whispers, the men kept in contact. There were frequent halts, to let those behind catch up. Only the knowledge that they were nearing the enemy, and would soon be charging his positions, kept the soldiers’ nerves from exploding.

The last and hardest wait came at the edge of the bush, where the coarse, four-foot-high grass began. Scouts had been sent out to locate the Jap positions, so the soldiers’ “grapevine” reported. When they returned, the troops were to move forward. If all went well they would pounce upon their enemies in the first gray light of dawn. The Japs, notoriously late sleepers when they did not expect an attack, would be caught literally napping.

“It sounds fine,” Curly Levitt muttered in Barry’s ear. “But one little mistake of ours could give those people warning. Wouldn’t it have been safer to surround the Nips’ positions and rush them from all sides?”

“Possibly—in full daylight,” Barry whispered back. “But at dawn there’s danger of shooting down our own troops by mistake. Our jungle uniforms are enough like the Japs’ to fool you where the visibility is low. You’ve given me an idea, though, Curly. If the rest of our crew agree, we six might circle around to the enemy’s rear. We’re not under orders, and we’d be taking our own risk.”

“Wait a minute while I crawl around and ask them,” the Rosy’s navigator replied eagerly. “I think they’ll eat it up!”

Curly was right in his guess. The extra risks involved meant little to the four Air Force sergeants. They would go where Barry Blake led, even if it meant charging the whole Jap force with hand grenades.

Fortunately for their plan, the six “guerillas” were on the far right wing of the attacking line. In the darkness their silent departure would not be noticed. Keeping contact by touch alone, they crawled away along the edge of the jungle.

The moon was now well up in the sky, silvering the long grass of the hill-crest. Thus Barry could watch the lay of the land, while keeping in the black shadow of the bush. On reaching the height of land, he stopped.

“There’s a rocky outcropping twenty yards from here,” he whispered to Curly Levitt. “I’m going to crawl out to it and try to spot the Jap gun positions.... They might give us a clue to the trenches our scout plane reported the first day.”

Without waiting for Curly’s answer, Barry Blake wormed his way toward the exposed outcrop. Reaching it, he inched his way to the highest part. Now he had no protection except the dirty color of his jungle suit. If a Jap sentry should catch his least movement, it would be just too bad.

From the rocks he looked down on a sea of grass, broken by little islands of brush and trees. No trenches appeared. They were either cleverly camouflaged with grass, or else there were none near by. One of the tree clumps, however, drew Barry’s especial interest. From where he lay, a vaguely pagoda-like shape could be glimpsed protruding from the shadows.

A Jap tent, draped with camouflage netting? It would be worth a risk to discover the truth, Barry believed. Cautiously he crawled back to his friends.

“We’ll proceed in single file, on hands and knees,” he told them. “Stick a lot of grass in your helmet nets before you start. It’s nearly dawn now, so we won’t have long to wait for the big fight to open. Better take a good drink from your water canteens while you have a chance.”

A foot at a time they advanced, with little pauses. A sentry, had he glimpsed the movement of their grass trimmed hats, might have taken it for a passing breeze.

The light grew stronger. The clump of trees took more definite shape. Now the guerillas could see clearly the angle of a large tent with its protective netting. From within came snores in three or four different keys.

“Officers’ tent!” Curly whispered. “Sentry must be asleep, too—if there is one. What’ll we do now?”

“Get a little nearer; wait for the first shot of the main attack, and then toss a couple of grenades apiece. That ought to put us into the scrap with a bang.”

“Twelve bangs!” chuckled Curly. “Even one small bomb would do a better job, though.”

Barry moved off in a different direction, to bring the open door of the tent into full view. Five yards further on he stopped with a gasp. His hand had slipped into a hole, beneath the grass roots.

Laying down his tommy-gun, Barry grasped the edge of the hole and lifted. A whole section of the “ground” tilted up. Beneath it yawned black emptiness.

“Here’s a trench!” he whispered over his shoulder to Curly. “It’s covered with grass sods, laid on matting. Tell the boys to come on in.”

Feet first, he let himself down into the hole. It was only four feet deep and very narrow. Evidently the Japs had dug it as a protection against air attacks, but it could also be used for ground fighting. For the guerillas’ purpose it was ideal.

At Barry’s orders, only three mats were removed—no more than could be quickly replaced. In the opening all six men stood, waiting for daylight and the first gun. Each held a grenade, as he faced the door of the Jap Officers’ tent.

“Here’s a Trench!” He Whispered Over His Shoulder