Hunter Sniper

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Deke went outside and joined Philly and Lieutenant Steele, who were smoking cigarettes that they cupped in their hands to contain the dim glow, gazing uneasily at the darkness. Not all the wounded could fit inside the tent, so several were spread on the ground, waiting for their turn with the surgeon. Their torn bodies lay in a rough circle around the tent, some on stretchers and others just on blankets on the ground. They didn’t complain. Again, a couple of volunteers continued to circulate, bringing them water and doing what they could for the wounded.

“Thank God for that doc, or these guys wouldn’t have a prayer,” Honcho said quietly. “I hope to hell we can get them off this island tomorrow.”

Philly spoke up. “I just wish—”

He never got to complete the thought. Two figures materialized out of the darkness, rushing right at the wounded and the operating tent. At first it seemed as if two more volunteers had come to help the wounded. But then the shapes materialized into soldiers with rifles and bayonets, wearing Japanese uniforms. What light there was revealed faces twisted into savage expressions.

If they had wanted to, they could have had the drop on Deke, Philly, and Steele. But they did not attack. Instead, to Deke’s horror, the Japanese began using their bayonets to stab down at the wounded.

To make it even more confusing, the Japanese did not utter a sound, other than a grunt of exertion as one of them jammed his bayonet down. This was followed by the awful sound of the blade cutting into meat. The other Japanese soldier stabbed one of the unarmed volunteers who had rushed to intercept him, then turned his bayonet on the wounded.

What the hell? Those damn Japs sure as hell want to finish what they started.

Honcho was the first to react. His shotgun boomed, the powerful blast of the twelve gauge catching the nearest Japanese infiltrator in the chest and lifting him clear off his feet. Honcho racked in another shell and shot the man again before his body had even hit the ground. At close range, the deep boom sounded like a cannon going off. Flame stabbed out from the muzzle, searing into Deke’s vision.

Deke still managed to fire his rifle from the hip, hitting the second Japanese in the belly. The wounded attacker spun like a top, giving Deke time to work the bolt and raise the rifle to his shoulder so that he could deliver a second shot. Hit twice, the infiltrator went down and didn’t move.

A third Japanese soldier appeared like a wraith, stealthy and silent, his arm cocked back as he prepared to pitch a hand grenade into the canvas tent.

Steele dropped him with a shotgun blast. The enemy soldier must have fallen on top of the grenade, which exploded an instant later with a muffled whump.

The attack was over as quickly as it had begun. The whole medical team, along with the wounded, had come within seconds of being wiped out.

“Son of a bitch!” Philly shouted. “Where the hell did they come from?”

The three men kept their weapons leveled, but no more infiltrators appeared — at least not for the moment. The savage sneak attack had claimed two American lives — the wounded man and the volunteer who had been tending the wounded — both killed by bayonet.

All over Camp Downes, similar scenes were taking place. Japanese soldiers charged out of the darkness, wreaking havoc. The humid night air served as a cloak, muffling sound and hiding the attackers within its dark folds.

Mostly the enemy relied on their bayonets, a silent weapon that was both primitive and terrifying. Nobody wanted to get eighteen inches of steel rammed through their guts. Because the Japanese had opted not to use their machine guns or rifles, there was no warning and nothing to shoot at — not until the enemy was right on top of them.

A few infiltrators threw grenades into the foxholes, taking out whatever defenders sheltered there. Adding to the havoc was the fact that the infiltrators knew the ins and outs of Camp Downes all too well, having vacated the outpost only recently. The Japanese knew the paths that ran between the buildings, providing cover until they were right upon the Americans.

They also used the smallest shrubs for cover, creeping to within a few feet of the US sentries. Their war dog now played his part. Thor barked savagely, alerting the soldiers that they were not alone in the darkness. Egan strained to hold Thor’s leash. Meanwhile, M1 rifles cracked, putting an end to the infiltrators who had been trying to creep up on them unseen.

Other Japanese managed to slip around to the waterfront and surprise the defenders by coming at them from behind the lines, rather than from the direction of the forest, as expected. Seemingly piecemeal at first, it became clear that the infiltrators were coordinated and organized, doing far more damage than a full-on attack, which would have been mowed down by the defenders’ machine guns.

One thing for sure was that there wouldn’t be any sleep that night.

“I got to say, this is like battling bedbugs in a cheap hotel,” Philly said. “Soon as you squish one, you feel another one crawling on you.”

“Remind me not to travel anywhere with you,” Deke said. “Either that or stay in a better class of hotel.”

Doc Harmon had emerged from the operating tent to see what all the commotion was about. The night was punctuated by shouts and gunshots. “What the hell is going on out here?”

“Jap infiltrators, Doc,” Honcho explained. “I’m afraid that the sons of bitches got one of the wounded and one of our stretcher bearers.”

The surgeon knelt to examine one of the men who had been bayoneted by the Japanese. Although it was dark, the man’s blood appeared darker still as it pooled beneath him. Harmon finally straightened up, shaking his head.

“Gone,” he said, a hint of anger in his voice. “I can’t say that I’m encouraged by the fact that the Japanese keep killing them faster than I can patch them up. It’s not exactly easy operating by flashlight, you know.”

“Don’t worry about the Japs, Doc,” Honcho said, stepping forward and racking a fresh shell into his combat shotgun. “You concentrate on helping those wounded. I’ll admit that the sneaky bastards caught us by surprise. It won’t be happening again. We’ll make sure not so much as a mosquito gets through. Deke? Philly?”

Deke nodded. He tightened his grip on his rifle. Something about the thought of helpless wounded men being murdered in their blankets made him angrier than usual at the Japanese. What the hell was wrong with these people? “On it.”

“All right,” the surgeon said. “I appreciate it. Just try not to get yourselves shot or stabbed in the process. I seem to have all the work that I can handle.”

Deke, Philly, and Steele kept vigil around the operating tent, fingers on their triggers. The rest of Patrol Easy, including Thor, were kept busy elsewhere. Yoshio was off with Alphabet and Rodeo, guarding what served as headquarters at Camp Downes. Captain Merrick seemed to like having an interpreter on hand, just in case Yoshio overheard any shouted orders. In any case, there appeared to be plenty of infiltrators to go around.

As for Danilo, the Filipino had not been content to play sentry. Wordlessly, he had left his rifle behind and crept into the darkness, armed only with his bolo knife. To merely call it a “knife” was something of an understatement, like calling an eagle a bird. The traditional blade was more like a machete or short sword. By comparison, even Deke’s custom-forged bowie knife looked like the bolo’s little brother — or maybe a toothpick.

For generations the bolo had served the Filipinos as both a tool and as a weapon when necessary. They were handed down from father to son and treated as heirlooms as valuable as Excalibur, even when they had the humblest workaday appearance.

In Danilo’s hands, the bolo blade would be more than enough. Deke shuddered to think about the fate that awaited any Japanese that Danilo encountered. While the Americans fought the Japanese because it was their job as soldiers, Danilo and other guerrillas had suffered cruelly at the hands of the occupiers. The Japanese had taken away their freedom, their homes. For them, this was more than combat — this was revenge.

“Damn fool is gonna get himself killed out there,” Philly muttered.

“Maybe, but he’ll take a few Nips with him, that’s for sure.”

They settled down to wait, which was always the hardest part at night when you were expecting an attack. It was only a matter of time before there were more infiltrators. The Japanese seemed to have plenty of tricks up their sleeves. One thing, at least — nobody was in any danger of falling asleep.

Once or twice Deke heard a distant shriek cut short. It was hard to say if the cries had come from a human or an animal. Either way, any hunter would recognize that sound as the dying cry of prey. Was it Danilo at work, or some other predator?

Deke stared out into the darkness until he saw spots. He blinked them away, looking for any movement. Given the depth of the tropical night, it wasn’t easy. The darkness appeared to ebb and flow like the eddies and currents of some great, black river.

“How dark did you say it was out here, Philly?” Deke asked. Deke was poking at him because Philly had become somewhat infamous for his similes.

“I’d say it’s as dark as my boot up your ass.”

Deke snorted. “Yep, that sounds about right.”

“All right, you two, knock it off,” Honcho said irritably. Ever since he’d had to take command of an entire platoon within Merrick’s company, Honcho’s patience had worn thin. “Pay attention. I need to leave you and go check on the rest of these ladies.”

Once the lieutenant had gone off to check on the rest of his platoon, Deke and Philly traded one-liners and insults to stay awake, and in part to be reassured that there was another man just a few feet away in the darkness.

Twice more that night, Japanese attacked the medical tent. The first time, it was another trio of infiltrators who made the mistake of shouting some kind of battle cry. If the attack had been silent, the outcome might have been different, but the shouts of the Japanese jolted Deke’s trigger finger awake. By then Honcho had returned from his rounds and taken up his guard duties again. Honcho’s shotgun boomed beside Deke, and then Philly’s rifle. All three infiltrators went down.

The next attempt was even more of a stealth attack, undertaken in total silence. They didn’t even spot the two Japanese at first, not until they were already at the tent, using their bayonets to cut their way in through the canvas to get at the medical team and wounded inside.

Before the infiltrators could do any real damage, they were shot down by Honcho, Deke, and Philly.

At first Deke thought that Doc Harmon hadn’t been aware of how close the Japanese had come to getting inside the tent. But then a hand appeared from within and tugged the slits in the canvas closed. It was as if the infiltrators were nothing more than a nuisance.

“I’ll be damned,” Honcho remarked. “That doc has got some sand, all right.”

By first light, the Japanese attacks had subsided. Somewhere within the morning mist that enveloped the edges of the forest, they could actually hear the Japanese talking to one another, and even laughing at one point. The smell of cooking food drifted their way. Apparently the enemy troops were having a hot breakfast.

The Japanese did not depend on canned rations like the Americans did, although the Americans had occasionally come across caches of tinned Japanese crabmeat and even fish. Instead, Japanese troops were typically issued dried rice.

The rice was highly portable and easy to prepare, plus had the benefit of providing hot food. Theoretically US soldiers could heat up their ration cans, but few ever bothered to do so in the field. The distant talk and laughter, along with the smell of the small cooking fires and the hot food, served as a reminder that the Japanese defenders were not only well supplied but in good spirits.

“I’d say those Japanese have a passel of fight left in them,” Deke remarked.

“Yeah, they just don’t know they’re beat yet,” Philly said. He held out a chunk of cold, hard, bitter tropical chocolate, designed not to melt in the tropical heat. First thing in the morning, it was not very appetizing, but it provided instant energy to weary men. “Want some breakfast?”

Deke took it, stuck the square of chocolate in his mouth, and snapped off a bite. The chocolate crumbled like chalk and tasted about the same. He washed it down with some canteen water. “Mmm, mmm. I’ll just pretend it’s scrapple.”

Philly shuddered. “Scrapple? I can’t believe you eat that hillbilly crap.”

“In case you ain’t noticed, I am a hillbilly. Proud of it too.”

The surgeon emerged from the operating tent, which was covered in a heavy dew from the previous night’s damp jungle air.

Honcho offered the surgeon a cigarette, which he accepted with a nod.

“How did it go, Doc?”

“I fixed them up as best as I could. Hopefully the wounded will be transported out to a hospital ship as soon as possible. A couple of them need more surgery, but I patched up the worst of it. Some of them need plasma, too, and we’re damn low on that. It would be helpful if nobody else gets shot today.”

“We’ll see what we can do about that, Doc, but that’s really up to the Japanese.” Honcho grinned. “You can see that the Japanese weren’t too keen on you fixing up the wounded. It doesn’t make sense, being so intent on attacking them. Those men are out of the fight.”

“It’s their way of getting at us mentally,” the doc said. “When they kill our wounded, it makes us feel vulnerable.”

“Then I’ve got to say, it works pretty well.”

Despite his air of nonchalance, it was clear that the doctor was exhausted. He had worked through the night, operating by flashlight, under constant threat of enemy attack. He yawned wide and rubbed his face.

“I don’t suppose there’s any chance of getting some hot coffee around here? Maybe with two sugars?”

“If you find any, Doc, let me know.”

“I guess a cigarette will have to do.”

“Say, aren’t those bad for your health?”

“So is being on a battlefield, but that hasn’t stopped me yet either.”

The surgeon sucked the cigarette smoke deep into his lungs, exhaled, and then walked around the tent, inspecting the dead Japanese with what appeared to be professional curiosity. Like most dead men, they looked smaller than they had while animated by life.

However, the enemy soldiers looked relatively well fed, and their uniforms were in better shape than those of some of those worn by the Americans. Cleaner and not as ragged. These were indications that at least some supplies must still be getting through to the Japanese. The army brass always pitched the idea of the enemy being on the ropes, starving and low on ammo. The GIs in the field knew otherwise.

Even in death, the enemy casualties did not have the look of troops who had been fighting out of desperation.

A few feet away, they could see Yoshio sitting on a crate, skimming the documents that soldiers had collected from dead Japanese scattered across other sections of Camp Downes. The hope was that he would find maps or orders, documents that gave a hint of the Japanese positions and strength. So far, all that he had come across were letters from home. It was a reminder that the Japanese might not be as monstrous as they had seemed during the night.

When their bodies had been searched, it revealed that many of the Japanese were wearing colorful “thousand-stitch belts” around their waists. Even die-hard souvenir hunters among the US soldiers left them alone. The embroidered belts had been made for the enemy dead by loved ones at home — mothers and wives, sisters and sweethearts. The belts were intended to keep their men safe from harm, much in the way that many US soldiers wore a cross or religious scapular under their uniforms. It was evident that neither crosses nor thousand-stitch belts did much to stop bullets, but a soldier took hope where he could.

In truth, there were a surprisingly small number of dead enemy troops. During the night, it had felt as if hordes were infiltrating the camp. It went to show just how effective the infiltrators’ tactics had been.

“I have to say, these enemy soldiers appear to be in good physical condition,” the surgeon observed, unwittingly echoing what Deke had said earlier to Philly. “It’s not going to be an easy fight.”

“Yeah, well,” Honcho said. “At least these fellas won’t be helping.”