There's a concrete wall behind the Torres Memorial Hospital in the dusty village of Lamitan on the southern Philippine island of Basilan. In the middle of it is a door, only 1.5-meters high. Seven months ago, roughly 60 members of the dreaded Abu Sayyaf kidnap gang led by chieftain Abu Sabaya were barricaded inside with about 20 hostages, including three Americans, definitively surrounded by the Philippine military. Their careers as terrorists seemed to be coming to a bloody conclusion. That is, until the early evening of June 2, in circumstances that are shadowy but undoubtedly scandalous, when the Abu Sayyaf opened that modest back door and scurried unscathed into the island's protective jungles.

That's the door that opened the second front in the U.S.'s war on terrorism. More than 200 U.S. troops are in the southern Philippines ready to join the fight against Abu Sayyaf, technically as mere "advisers." They're here to train and equip their Philippine partners and walk shoulder to shoulder with them through the jungle scouting out terrorists, pinning them down—and making sure the swinging doors and security holes that have kept Abu Sayyaf in business for so long are finally bolted shut and boarded over.

Ostensibly the Abu Sayyaf are Islamic freedom fighters, but in reality they're hardy jungle extortionists. Just after midnight on June 2, 2001, a squad came out of the jungle seeking medical treatment for injured fighters. They stormed the Torres hospital and holed up inside. The police and army mounted a day-long siege, exchanging fire with Abu Sayyaf fighters stationed behind hospital windows and in the bell tower of neighboring St. Peter's Church, where Father Cirilo Nacorda, who himself had been an Abu Sayyaf hostage for two months in 1994 (and who now keeps two guns in his office), hid from the battle. By late afternoon, both sides were running low on ammunition. Then the soldiers guarding the back of the hospital inexplicably retreated and the rebels got away. Some hostages escaped but more were taken in their place.

Philippine military brass admit a mistake was made—a colossal blunder—but say it was an error of judgment: apparently the soldiers were called away to a strategy meeting. They did not, insists the military, get paid off to let the rebels go. Father Nacorda says hospital staff saw Brigadier General Romeo Dominguez's aides carrying briefcases full of cash inside the hospital, though they didn't see any change hands between soldiers and rebels. Nacorda believes the army paid a ransom for the hostages, pocketing a cut for themselves. Brigadier General Dominguez, whose integrity is praised inside and out of the military, said the money was on hand to pay for treatment of his men.

The armed forces' leaders contend it is not incompetent or corrupt despite charges that begin with ineptitude and run all the way to collusion. "The Abu Sayyaf has been lucky, but sooner or later their luck will run out," says Defense Secretary Angelo Reyes, a retired general. But why hasn't the military already brought this ragtag band to heel? Brutal terrain and a lack of equipment are the most cited explanations—the first soldiers on the scene in Lamitan didn't have radios. This is not a wealthy nation, of course, but one retired general in Manila points to corrosive mismanagement as the reason soldiers aren't properly equipped, adding, "Corruption is a big factor." Gear often does not get to those who need it as officers distribute equipment to curry favor, rather than vanquish enemies. Salaries are, he says, "shamefully inadequate"—roughly $150 per month for enlisted men, with about a dollar a day for meals.

Who pays for all this corruption and ineptitude? Guillermo Sobero, for one, an American hostage who was beheaded a week after the siege. The three remaining hostages of Abu Sayyaf—two of them American—could also end up paying with their lives. Then there are those who live in Lamitan, where 70% of the people are below the poverty line and where children's faces darken when they hear mention of Abu Sayyaf. Better off are the seven youngsters, the eldest 16, recently released by Abu Sayyaf after spending two years carrying bullets and scouting for them. And, perversely, a mother who saw her husband and brother killed during a rebel raid, but saved her son and herself—by allowing herself to be raped by the group.

Now it's time for the U.S. to pay. There will be about 600 troops in Mindanao and more than $100 million in military hardware. American troops will join Philippine soldiers on patrols, two per company, no more than 160 in the field at a given time. Protest about American intervention simmers in Manila, but in places like Lamitan, the natives are welcoming, desperate to see some kind of order restored.

The Philippine military is proud, and insists the whole buildup is nothing but a "training exercise," albeit in a live-fire zone. They do not like to be considered a proxy army like the Northern Alliance. "This is our war," says Reyes, "we will fight it ourselves." In Lamitan, Private First Class Pawake Salian insists, "If we try hard enough, we will find them." That's the right spirit—especially from a soldier who has just finished a month-long tour in the jungle, without once bumping into the Abu Sayyaf.