“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. [Illustration: _“Here’s a Trench!” He Whispered Over His Shoulder_] Their wait was not long, though to their tensed nerves it seemed hours. From behind them a Jap sentry’s rifle shot was blanketed by the heavier voices of American sub-machine guns. Shrill yells arose. The sharper clatter of Jap .25-caliber machine guns joined the din. Barry’s party needed no command to toss their deadly little “pineapples.” Two apiece, they lobbed them right into the tent. Then they ducked, pulling the grass mats over them. The explosions came almost together—like a string of giant firecrackers. A patter of debris sounded on the grass matting just over their heads. Jap voices broke out, shrill with excitement, drawing rapidly nearer. Suddenly light showed, farther down the trench. “They’re coming in!” Barry snapped. “Wait till they fill the trench, and then rake ’em with the tommy-guns. Curly and I will lie down; the rest of you kneel or stand and fire over us. Toss off the end mat at the last minute.”