Hunter Sniper

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The soldiers emerged from their nighttime ordeal dazed and exhausted. Some moved stiffly from being cramped into their foxholes all night. Early-morning jungle dew beaded their helmets and dampened their uniforms.

They had survived the series of piecemeal nighttime incursions by the enemy, but those had taken their toll in a way that was almost as devastating as a coordinated daytime attack, whittling away at their spirit and energy. The night had left their nerves feeling as raw as their bloodshot eyes, tired from straining to see into the darkness.

Now that it was daylight, there was a new threat that the Japanese might be trying a different tactic and launching just such an all-out attack.

“If the Japanese do attack, I hope it’s sooner rather than later,” Deke told Philly. The two men sat side by side in a foxhole, eating what passed for breakfast and washing it down with metallic canteen water.

“How about if they don’t attack us at all?” Philly suggested.

Deke shook his head. “One way or another, we’re gonna have to fight some Japanese today. At least we’re dug in here at Camp Downes. If they hit us once we push on toward Ormoc, we’ll be caught out in the open.”

“Caught with our pants down, you mean,” Philly said. “Wouldn’t be the first time. It’s not a pretty sight.”

“No, it ain’t,” Deke agreed.

Overhead, a single reconnaissance plane made slow sweeps over the frontline area. Nobody paid the plane much attention because it was one of their own.

The plane was designated as an L-4 Grasshopper, basically known in civilian life as a Piper Cub. With a fixed upper wing, a top speed of 85 miles per hour, and a maximum operational altitude of twelve thousand feet, the unarmed army plane wasn’t about to tangle with any enemy fighters. However, the plane’s ability to chug overhead at just under 40 miles per hour made it ideal for observation missions. Typically the pilot got in close while the aerial photographer clicked away.

Honcho paused near Deke and Philly’s foxhole as he made his rounds, then lit up a cigarette and watched the plane overhead.

“He’ll let headquarters know if he sees any sign of the Japanese,” Honcho said. “I just hope to hell the Japanese don’t pull a Saipan on us.”

“If they come, I’ll be ready,” said Private Frazier, who was listening nearby, holding on to his BAR.

“That’s the spirit,” Honcho said. His expression didn’t match his words, however. His sad frown spoke volumes. It was as if the lieutenant had seen and heard it all before — which he had.

By now they had all heard about the fight for Saipan, where the cornered enemy had launched massive waves of banzai charges involving thousands of Japanese troops. At first the US Marines had been overwhelmed. Hundreds of Americans had died in the savage close-quarters fighting as waves of the enemy washed over them like surf dashing upon rocks.

Sheer firepower had eventually carried the day, securing the American lines and wiping out thousands of Japanese troops. In all of the war, including in Europe, there had been no other example of close-quarters fighting on that scale. You would almost have to go back to medieval times for something like that. No one was eager for that scenario to play out here.

So far the enemy seemed content to dig in and let the Americans come at them.

“Everybody get something to eat,” Honcho said to Patrol Easy and the platoon under his command. Although he had made no secret of the fact that he didn’t want to be in charge of anything bigger than the sniper squad, it was clear that he took his duties seriously. He looked around to make sure that the hollow-eyed, exhausted men were listening. “Make sure your canteens are full. It might be a long day.”

Honcho might have said more, but at that moment a warning shout was heard. Somebody was pointing at the sky. The US reconnaissance plane was still overhead, flying low and slow, but that wasn’t what they were pointing at. As the men on the ground looked up, they saw two aircraft drop out of the sky and begin vectoring toward Camp Downes. The roar of approaching aircraft engines was getting louder by the second.

“Holy hell!” Philly cried. “Those are Japanese planes!”

In disbelief, Deke looked up and heard the roar of approaching aircraft engines just seconds after he spotted the planes themselves, shooting like arrows above the treetops, almost impossibly fast. No wonder — top speed for a Japanese Zero was 350 miles per hour, thanks to its powerful Mitsubishi engine.

Deke’s sharp eyes managed to get a glimpse of the meatball insignia on the wings.

Zeros, all right. Two of them. Headed right for Camp Downes. Even with their foxholes, the entire unit was vulnerable to attack from above.

There was barely time to react. Soldiers caught in the open ran for cover or threw themselves flat.

Deke hit the dirt like everybody else, but he kept his eyes on the planes. Part of him couldn’t help it — he had never seen enemy planes this close before. It was both terrifying and fascinating. He gripped his rifle tight, cursing the fact that the weapon was useless against the fast-moving planes. By the time he got it to his shoulder, they would be gone.

The planes must have been launched from an interior airfield, possibly even the one at Ormoc — a perfect reminder of the urgency of capturing the airfield. Two airplanes weren’t going to win the war, but they sure could rain destruction upon the soldiers clinging to the beachhead and defending Camp Downes.

A new sound could be heard over the whine of the racing engines. This one sent chills down Deke’s spine. It was the chatter of machine guns blazing down at soldiers who scrambled to get out of the way of the line of fire. Each Zero was equipped with twin 7.7-millimeter machine guns, which were unleashing their fury at the targets below.

Some men were too slow getting out of the way of the bullets digging stitches into the ground. Hit multiple times, they went sprawling in the sand, never to get up again. One man wasn’t killed outright, but the heavy slug had broken his arm, leaving it dangling. As the second plane began hammering the ground, the man just stood there in shock.

Seeing the dazed and wounded man, Doc Harmon and one of the orderlies broke cover and ran to help him. Deke couldn’t decide if the medical men were brave or foolish. They got on either side of the wounded man and guided him toward the hospital tent. Its thin canvas walls could provide no protection from air-to-ground gunfire, but it served as cover, if nothing else.

“Take cover!” Honcho yelled, but it was too little, too late. The planes were already on them like hawks on a rabbit, chewing up the men on the beach with their heavy-caliber machine guns.

As if the machine guns weren’t enough, the planes each carried two bombs that they dropped with unnerving precision. These were small bombs, weighing just over one hundred pounds, which was just about all the extra weight that the Zero could manage. But what they lacked in size, they made up for in accuracy. Flying at such a low altitude, there was almost no way that the planes could miss their targets below.

Seconds later, the ground shook as the bombs detonated, filling the air with fire and smoke, shrapnel and concussion. Deke found himself diving for cover with everybody else. He got a mouthful of sand for his trouble, but it was better than tangling with the debris that spread overhead. When he raised his head, he saw a chunk of red-hot metal the size of a silver dollar embedded in the sand nearby, still smoking. If that shrapnel had come just a foot closer—

One of the bombs managed to hit a tank. It was hard to say if the tank had been targeted or if it was just bad luck, but the so-called Satan tank exploded in a fireball of its own, probably helped along by the fuel it carried for its flamethrower. The combustible jelly fed flames that spewed from every crevice in the tank. It was clear that the tank crew never had a chance. Maybe they never even knew what hit them, which would have been a blessing.

The result of that bomb strike was one less behemoth with which to dislodge the Japanese defenders around Ormoc. Here in the middle of the Pacific, a wrecked tank wasn’t something that could be easily replaced.

The twin Zeros rushed out to sea and turned as if on a dime, heading back in for a second pass. Those Japanese Zeros were nothing if not nimble.

The men on the ground were also quick. They had been through this before on other landings. The beach was not undefended. Antiaircraft batteries sprang into action, filling the sky with tracers and flak, trying to knock down the Zeros.

One of the planes was hit and began trailing smoke, but rushed away and disappeared toward the interior of Leyte. It would remain to be seen whether the plane reached its hidden base. The second plane strafed the beach one last time for good measure, its machine guns churning up the sand. Then it, too, vanished.

“That was exciting,” said Philly, picking himself up off the ground and brushing sand and gravel from his uniform and helmet. “I guess those Japanese still aren’t ready to give up. Nobody told them that the battle was over.”

“Nope, not until we’ve killed off the last one,” Deke agreed.

Looking around at the devastation, he felt a bit stunned by the attack. In addition to the burning tank, bombs had also hit one of the buildings at the camp, so that the building was on fire, its flames spreading to the thatched roof of a neighboring building. A handful of soldiers rushed to carry supplies out of the burning buildings before it was too late. Several wounded men lay on the ground, some struggling to get up, some not moving at all.

Deke hadn’t been wounded, and he was relieved to see that none of the other snipers had been either. But at the same time, the air attack made him feel defenseless. After all, how could anyone defend against such fast-moving planes? A lone man with a rifle couldn’t do much. Deke shook his head, reminded once again that modern warfare was a whole lot bigger than a man with a rifle and a bowie knife.

“I’ll be damned,” he muttered.

As it turned out, the Japanese fighters hadn’t been the only planes in the sky.

Philly pointed. “Look, it’s one of ours. He’s been up there this whole time!”

The lone American reconnaissance plane was still airborne over the beach. The pilot had evidently decided that the plane was too slow to make a run for it. Instead, he had dropped even lower, apparently hoping that the two Japanese Zeros would be too busy to notice him.

That strategy had worked — to a point. However, the reconnaissance aircraft was far from being out of danger. The storm of flak was intended for the enemy planes, but the airbursts were indiscriminate.

From the uneven flight path, it was clear that the pilot was struggling for control of his plane and trying to dodge whatever ground fire he could. Lucky for him, the ground troops seemed to be doing their best not to shoot down one of their own.

But the sturdy plane wasn’t out of danger yet. At any moment, one of the fast-moving Zeros could wipe out the recon plane like a bird snapping its beak on an insect, without so much as a second thought.

The pilot’s flight path carried him directly over the spot where one of the Japanese bombs was detonating. At that instant an explosive geyser clawed its way upward in a tornado of high explosives, ripping off the entire tail of the small reconnaissance plane. One moment the tail had been there, and the next moment it was gone. The front section of the plane and the wings were untouched.

Fighter pilots got all the glory, but it spoke to the pilot’s skill that he was able to wrestle with the controls as the plane plunged toward the beach. It wasn’t going to be a controlled landing, but it looked like the pilot was going to avoid crashing altogether — just barely.

Soldiers ran out of the way as the plane came down, swinging wildly from side to side and dipping up and down like a paper airplane caught in a whirlwind. The wheels touched down, and the plane skidded across the sand before coming to a halt. Soldiers ran to help the pilot and copilot get out. By some miracle, the plane had not caught on fire.

Allowing himself to be led away, the pilot looked back at what was left of his plane and stared at the missing tail section.

Technically, he had not been shot down, but it was hard to find a term that explained that the tail of a reconnaissance plane in flight had been blown off by a Japanese bomb on the ground. Some clerk down the line would likely put it down as mechanical failure and leave it at that.

“How about that,” he said. “I thought something was wrong.”

“I’ll say, buddy,” a soldier replied. “It looks like the whole back half of your plane is gone!”

Then the pilot shook off the helping hands and walked nonchalantly away.