Hunter Sniper

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

If Captain Merrick had known just who these reinforcements were, he might have been slightly less enthusiastic.

But beggars can’t be choosers. The entire division was short handed. Low on men and with no hope of getting additional troops across a sea that was fraught with enemy ships and planes, Division Commander General Bruce had been forced to make do with whatever men remained in the beach area.

To call it the rear echelon wasn’t exactly accurate, because this implied an area that was safely behind the front lines. Technically, the front lines were still just a few hundred feet from the beach landing area.

Consequently, all the support staff had been rounded up. This included mechanics and supply staff, clerks and cooks. These men had important jobs — no army was going to run with broken-down tanks and Jeeps, empty bellies, or even without paperwork, for that matter.

While their military role might be different, it was also true that you weren’t going to meet any tougher soldiers than mechanics and supply sergeants. They were already unsung heroes.

However, they were not frontline combat troops. The actual fighting was usually left to soldiers like the men in Captain Merrick’s company. Much to their surprise, these rear-echelon men had been told that they were headed for the front lines.

Loaded onto the captured Japanese trucks, they had been given whatever weapons were available. Technically, every man in the division was a potential combat soldier, but it had been a long time since some of these men had handled a weapon, much less fired one. From the sounds of the firing in the not-so-far distance, it sounded as if they were going to have plenty of opportunity to get reacquainted with the use of their rifles.

Looking dazed, these men jumped down from the trucks to reinforce the beleaguered company.

Merrick was also taken aback when he saw that one or two of the relief troops still wore the aprons they’d had on back in the mess area, as if they had been rounded up in the middle of slinging hash. But what he really cared about was that these were men with rifles. A cook could still shoot.

He shouted orders, getting them into position.

One of the newly arrived soldiers was Private Dean Rafferty, a clerk whose chief skill was that he could accurately type sixty words a minute on his military-issue manual typewriter. Anyone who had ever tried to type on one of those clanking beasts would realize that this was no small feat. Clearly Private Rafferty had fingers like steel claws.

Still, Rafferty was on the scrawny side, being five foot six and weighing 125 pounds soaking wet. He was so skinny that it looked like he might fall between the typewriter keys if he wasn’t careful. He’d barely made it through boot camp. His drill sergeant had never once used his actual name, but had dubbed him “Pencil Neck.” It was probably no wonder that he had quickly been designated as a clerk. Nobody seemed to think he would get very far marching with a rifle and a fully loaded haversack.

Watching the battle-worn soldiers trudging through camp, young Rafferty had often wondered what it must be like to experience combat. He had even daydreamed now and then of leading a charge, or single-handedly wiping out a nest of Japanese. However, the headquarters tent back on the beach was as close as he’d come to the sights and sounds of battle — until now.

Nearly tumbling out of the truck that had rushed reinforcements to the front line, he had stumbled around in confusion until he found himself shoved into position, literally landing on the ground next to a tough-looking soldier with bad scars on one side of his face.

Holy cow, what happened to him?

The soldier gave him a glance out of the corner of his eye, a look so cold that Rafferty felt his blood chill a bit despite the tropical heat. The soldier went back to firing a rifle with a telescopic sight. A sniper, then.

The noise of battle was deafening and confusing, but Rafferty figured out what he was supposed to do fairly quickly, helped by the fact that an officer with an eye patch was shouting, “Shoot the bastards!”

Another clerk who’d been brought up from the beach suddenly slumped over, shot through the head. Too late for that poor soldier, the officer added further instructions, “Dammit, keep your heads down while you’re at it!”

Rafferty focused on the stretch of land in front of him. He was amazed to see actual Japanese soldiers on the hillside. The officer had reminded him that his job was to shoot at them. The enemy soldiers were scurrying from rocks to clumps of bushes, running low, making difficult targets.

He fired off a shot that went wide. He tried again, but in his nervousness he ended up yanking on the trigger before he had even picked out a target. He’d forgotten to put the rifle butt tight against his shoulder, so that each time he fired, the stock leaped back and kicked him. His shoulder soon ached, and he felt like he’d been punched in the jaw.

His own rifle was beating him up worse than the Japanese.

During a pause while reloading, Deke glanced at the scrawny soldier beside him. It looked like he was trying to wrestle with the rifle as much as shoot it. Deke shook his head. Where did they find these dumb bastards?

He wasn’t sure why, but he took pity on him. Judging by the soldier’s clean uniform, he was not used to frontline duties, probably a clerk. Something safe back at HQ. The kind of fella who typed up long lists of soldiers killed in action, confident in the fact that his own name wouldn’t be on that list anytime soon. All that had changed with the Japanese advance threatening to overrun the beachhead.

Deke had to give him credit. This clerk was fighting as best as he could against the oncoming Japanese. He just couldn’t shoot that rifle worth a damn.

“That ain’t a typewriter,” Deke growled. “Put that rifle butt snug against your shoulder. Squeeze the trigger. Just like you were taught in basic training.”

The clerk looked at him, fear mixed with determination in his eyes as he nodded and did as he was told. The next three shots were better — at any rate, he didn’t appear to be wrestling with his rifle anymore. Whether or not he had hit anything remained to be seen, but at least he was sending bullets in the direction of the enemy with enough accuracy to make them keep their heads down, instead of all his shots going wide.

“Keep at it,” Deke instructed him. “Aim and fire. If you miss one, shoot at him again. If you don’t, he’ll just shoot at you.”

The clerk didn’t respond, but fired two more shots. The stripper clip ejected, and the soldier fumbled with the fresh clip of rounds for the M1.

“Give it here a minute,” Deke said. Deftly, he showed the clerk how to reload the weapon, then handed it back. “Don’t slam your thumb in there. Think you can do that yourself next time?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“All right, then. Do some good with that.”

Up and down the line, similar scenes were playing out as men who didn’t normally handle weapons were getting reacquainted with the M1. More than a few got their thumbs slammed by the action as they tried to reload, a common hazard that often resulted in a swollen and bruised thumb, known as “M1 thumb.” However, with so much enemy lead flying at them, a mashed thumb was the least of their worries.

Mashed thumbs or not, the influx of fresh men began making a difference, bolstering the number of defenders on the line.

The firing continued hot and heavy, neither side willing to pull back and admit defeat. It had become a grudge match.

“Hey, Charlie!” shouted one of the Japanese, hidden in a pile of rocks no more than fifty feet from the American line. “We kill you now!”

“To hell with that!” shouted an outraged Private Frazier, who poured fire from his BAR at the rocks. Dirt and bits of rock flew in every direction. It was hard to say whether he’d gotten the enemy soldier, but the flurry of lead had certainly shut him up.

Setting aside the clerks and other support staff, the backbone of the defense was made up of veteran soldiers. For the past few months, they had lived and breathed combat. They knew their M1 rifles and other weapons better than they knew the contours of their wives and girlfriends. The combat veterans were tough and stubborn, even when the Japanese were equally so.

The Japanese made one last, mad push down the hill. The US line had been holding steady and hadn’t appeared in danger of being overrun — but this renewed attack made it waver and buckle, similar to a sail billowing in a strong wind.

Handfuls of attackers reached the US line, screaming their battle cries, resulting in hand-to-hand combat. Most of the Japanese had already fixed bayonets, which was a popular tactic. The idea was to rush in close with the Americans, overwhelming their defenses. On the US side, knives were drawn. Rifles on both sides were fired from the hip, no aiming necessary.

The supply staff and mechanics proved to be an ace up the Americans’ sleeve, because they were excellent brawlers. Maybe operation of the M1 gave them some trouble, but they understood well enough how to smash the butt into the skull of an enemy infantryman. The tactic being used by one big sergeant was simply to grab the enemy soldier’s rifle and twist it away, then punch the man in the face.

But as fast as they dealt with the Japanese, more appeared. Once again, the outcome of the battle balanced on a knife’s edge.

Captain Merrick came running at a crouch and slid into position beside Deke, like he was sliding into home plate. A burst of tracer fire stitched the air that his body had occupied just an instant before.

“Deke, everybody says how you’re a great shot, so don’t let me down now. You see that Japanese officer near the top of the ridge? I’ve been watching him through my binoculars. The son of a bitch must lead a charmed life. He’s up there directing the whole damn attack. I need you to take him out.”

“All right,” Deke said.

“He’s pretty far away,” Merrick said doubtfully.

“He ain’t that far. Not as far as Japan, anyhow. As long as I can see him, I can hit him,” Deke said, then looked around for Philly, who was twenty feet away, busy dealing with a Japanese soldier who had run close to their position. He looked around some more and his gaze settled on the skinny clerk. “Soldier, I need you to cover our asses. Don’t let any Japanese run up and stick us with a bayonet. The captain here is gonna watch through those binoculars of his and tell me how to correct my aim if I miss.”

“You got it.”

Deke had managed to tell Captain Merrick what to do without giving him orders. The captain was now watching the ridge intently through his binoculars.

Deke’s telescopic sight was not as powerful, but he could still see the officer up there. The man held a stick and was pointing it here and there, directing the additional soldiers who crossed the ridge. He appeared to be shouting orders. From his vantage point on high ground, the Japanese officer could evidently see where the US line was weakest and send his fresh troops to attack.

Go on and yap, little dog, Deke thought. You won’t be yappin’ long.

Deke lined up the crosshairs on the Japanese officer. The tendency when firing uphill was to aim too high, which Deke compensated for. There was a little wind off the ocean, so he adjusted his aim accordingly.

Deke couldn’t have explained how he knew where to aim. He just did it out of natural instinct. It was no different from shooting at a big buck up on a ridgeline back home. A buck that thought he was safe up there, beyond the reach of any two-legged hunter.

The target had ceased being a person in Deke’s mind. He was simply the prey, and Deke was the hunter.

His concentration was interrupted as a bullet whipped past. He’d even heard the crack of a rifle, much too close for comfort. Startled, he pulled his eye away from the scope, losing track of the target. He refocused on a patch of ground about fifty feet away, where a Japanese soldier was running at him, bayonet leveled and screaming his fool head off.

“You still with me?” he asked the scrawny clerk. “Now would be a good time to start shooting.”

“On it,” came the reply. There were three quick shots off to his right, and the attacker went down.

“Don’t let him get so close next time,” Deke said.

He turned his attention back to the rifle, putting his eye back to the scope. The ridgeline sprang closer. There was the Japanese officer, pointing his stick downhill, right at the American line and shouting something that needed no translation. Another few minutes and there wouldn’t be any American line.

The officer had cleverly spaced out his men rather than commit them in a single attack that could have been wiped out with a well-placed machine gun. Pure and simple, his plan was to grind them down.

Deke lined up the sights on the Japanese officer, once again doing the mental calculations that placed the crosshairs slightly above the man and to the right.

Off to one side, he heard the skinny clerk’s rifle fire two rapid shots. He must have stopped another attacker in his tracks.

This time, there was no interruption as Deke squeezed the trigger.

He missed.

He hadn’t seen where his bullet had gone, but the man was still standing. It didn’t help that the officer kept moving around.

Quickly, Deke worked the bolt and ejected the spent shell, which flickered away in the sunlight. A little whiff of smoke came out, followed by the refreshing acrid smell of burned gunpowder; then the smooth brass casing of a fresh round slipped into the chamber.

He had almost forgotten that Captain Merrick was watching through the binoculars.

“Come on, take out that son of a bitch,” Merrick said, a sense of urgency in his voice, which didn’t help Deke feel any calmer. The captain added, “You hit a little to the left.”

The second part was more helpful, considering that Deke hadn’t seen where his bullet had gone. Deke didn’t respond, already concentrating on his next shot, his eye glued to the round disk of glass on the telescopic sight. For Deke, the battlefield had shrunk to just the few feet of the slope visible through the scope, and he shut out everything else.

He let the crosshairs hover even more to the right, aiming at thin air, then squeezed the trigger.

Through the scope, he saw the Japanese officer crumple to the ground, his lifeless body sliding a few feet down the slope.

“You got him!” Captain Merrick cried, still watching through the binoculars. What appeared to be a junior officer had run to the fallen officer and crouched over him.

Deke was still hunched over the rifle, so he shot the junior officer for good measure.

Merrick finally lowered the binoculars and stared over at Deke, clearly impressed. “I could have taken potshots at that officer all day and not even have come close. I’ve got to say, you are pretty good with that rifle, son.”

Deke worked the bolt. “Who do you want me to shoot next?”

“Any son of a bitch in a Japanese uniform, that’s who.”

Having lost the officer managing the attack, the Japanese assault began to fall apart. Some Japanese even began to retreat back up the slope, which they wouldn’t have dared to do if the officer had still been up there with his swagger stick.

The icing on the cake came when the soldiers heard the familiar rumble of clanking tracks and roaring engines. The tanks had returned, having given up on their mission of trying to go around the ridge. Long stretches of rice paddies had blocked their advance, with the heavy tanks unable to cross the water-filled fields.

The two Satan tanks opened fire on the slope covered with Japanese forces. Their main guns punched new holes in the rocky slope.

A few soldiers even cheered.

A brave Japanese soldier ran right at the tanks, brandishing hand grenades in both hands as if he single-handedly intended to take them out with nothing more than his frenzy and the grenades. He was mowed down by a machine gun before he’d gotten nearly close enough to hurl the grenades.

Once the tanks were within range, they unleashed the fury of their flamethrowers. The flames licked at clumps of grass and brush that had provided concealment for the Japanese. Enemy soldiers were forced to run, some of them on fire as the jellied gasoline clung to them. The ones who had escaped the flames were cut down by machine guns and rifle fire.

It was all too clear that the back of the Japanese assault had been broken. The remaining troops began to withdraw back up the slope, at first in groups of two or three, and then by entire patrols.

Captain Merrick gave the order to advance, and men began racing up the slope, herding the Japanese before them like a pack of frightened sheep chased by demented shepherds. The loudest and wildest of the pursuers turned out to be some of the rear-echelon troops, shouting like banshees and waving their rifles like clubs as they went after the enemy.

The retreating Japanese forces ran past the body of their fallen officer without a second glance, then crossed over the ridge and disappeared.

The battle had finally been won. The beachhead was safe for now. In a sense, the fight had been an important turning point in that it was now unlikely that the Japanese would mount another meaningful offensive. Their tactics now would be purely defensive.

Exhausted and bloodied though they were, the soldiers would push on past the ridge to bring the fight to the Japanese dug in at Ormoc. The airfield there still needed to be captured.

Patrol Easy, Deke included, had not joined in the chase. They were content to hang back and save their energy for the next fight, which wouldn’t be long in coming. Deke looked around and saw Honcho and Yoshio in the distance, along with Rodeo, Alphabet, and Philly.

Only Private Egan and Thor weren’t there — they had joined the hunt for Japanese who had opted not to run, but who were trying to hide on the hillside. Thor’s sharp nose rooted them out, and the crack of a rifle announced the quarry’s end. No prisoners were being taken.

As was increasingly becoming the case in the Pacific, the fighting felt personal. Killing any Japanese they found was more about revenge than it was about military necessity. Such were the vicissitudes of war.

After all, there were a handful of bodies scattered around the American line. Good American boys who wouldn’t be going home. Their buddies were taking out their anger on the Japanese survivors. Neither Captain Merrick nor Honcho made any effort to put an end to the killing.

Deke took note of the skinny clerk still hovering nearby. He nodded at him and said, “That was some good shooting, kid.”

Private Rafferty grinned a bit sheepishly, but with evident pride. He hadn’t come through the fight completely unscathed, however. Sure enough, he had managed to mash his thumb in the action of the M1, the painful M1 thumb, but had kept fighting. From the looks of it, he had managed to get his thumb caught in the slamming action more than once. The thumb was swollen and bloody.

Deke noticed and said, “Let me see that hand a minute.” He used a scrap of cloth to bind it up. “Good as new.”

“Aw, why are you even bothering with him, Deke?” Philly wanted to know. “He’s just a clerk. How’s he gonna type with his thumb wrapped up like that?”

“Oh, I don’t know about that. We might just make a soldier out of him yet.”

His face was now grimy with dirt and blackened by gun smoke. The uniform that had been relatively clean that morning as he’d performed his clerical duties beneath a tarp erected on the beach was now muddy, torn at the knee, and soaked through with sweat.

Deke’s words had summed it up perfectly. You could almost see the man swelling up with the kind of pride that was hard earned. It didn’t matter how big he was or what his job in the army had been or what he would go back to once the Japanese were contained, for above all things, army clerk Rafferty was now a combat veteran.