Jungle Sniper

CHAPTER TWELVE

That morning, from the crest of Hill 522, Ikeda had watched with a sense of awe at the American landing craft racing toward the beach. So many boats!

“It looks as if the entire American fleet is here,” said Morosawa, who was watching the spectacle through binoculars. In many ways, Morosawa was his right-hand man. Like Ikeda himself, Morosawa and the other highly trained sogekihei were eager to meet the enemy.

“They say this is only a part of their fleet,” Ikeda replied.

Both men thought about that. It seemed impossible that the Americans could have even more ships. “I wish they would come within rifle range,” Morosawa said.

“Be patient, Kazuyuki. Our rifle barrels will be hot soon enough.”

They had been expecting the invasion for many long weeks, but Ikeda realized that his imagination had not been the equal of the actual sight of Leyte Gulf packed with ships and the skies filled with enemy planes.

From their vantage point, many of the Japanese troops watched anxiously. They had emerged from their deep shelters, unscathed, after the massive American bombardment. The defenses that they had labored to build had worked perfectly.

“Remember your duty!” shouted Major Noguchi, passing by in his dress uniform, complete with sword. The major caught Ikeda’s eye and nodded. “Look around you at these defenses that we have built! The Americans will break upon them like waves on the rocky shore!”

Ikeda was so used to seeing Noguchi in his simple work uniform, often as dusty as the laborers and carrying a shovel, that it was strange to see the major in his formal uniform. The crisp officer’s dress uniform looked out of place against the backdrop of rugged logs and fresh earth that composed the hill’s defenses, but then Ikeda understood. Major Noguchi planned to die here today.

Noguchi had poured all his energy into the defenses of this hill. Now that the hour of battle had come, the officer planned to defend the hill to the end, all while wearing his funeral best. Ikeda watched the major closely but saw no trace of sadness or fear. Major Noguchi looked calm — even happy — his energy focused on the battle to come.

Not every Japanese soldier shared in the fervor to die for the Emperor. For them, ample amounts of liquor were circulating. It was easier to be brave when inebriated. The sight of so many ships, planes, and soldiers arrayed against them felt overwhelming.

“Drink up, Ikeda!” said another gunsō, offering him a drink from a bottle. “Our ancestors will understand if we arrive a little tipsy.”

Ikeda shook his head at the offer of a drink. “I need a clear head for shooting. How would I hit a target if I am drunk?”

“Suit yourself! More for us!” the gunsō said with a laugh, moving on. Clearly he was already feeling the effect of the alcohol.

Unlike many of his comrades taking deep drinks of liquor, Ikeda felt no fear at all, but only a sense of elation. The long-awaited battle had finally begun. After weeks and months of preparation, they would fight. Their forces had been unleashed.

During the course of the morning, the battle had unfolded, beginning with the beach landing. Now that it was past midday, the Americans were pushing inland. Ikeda had been expecting the enemy to attack the hill for a while. Having skirted the town of Palo itself, which was still held by a handful of Japanese troops, the Americans were finally pushing up the slope.

His pulse raced, his eyes hot and dry as they flicked from one patch of ground to the next, eagerly seeking out targets. There were so many that it was difficult to pick out just one. He sought out officers in particular because they were the most valuable targets. It was exactly what he had been trained to do.

His initial euphoria at the sight of the Americans — at long last, the real fight had begun — had soon vanished. If he had been excited by the American attack on Hill 522 itself, that moment was long past. Now Ikeda spent his time watching and waiting for the enemy to show themselves. He had come to realize that he would need to use all his sniper skills if he was going to turn the tide against the onslaught of Americans.

What had seemed like child’s play at first, with so many targets to choose from, was turning out to be far more challenging than he had first imagined. The Americans fought hard, even if they did not have the same willingness that the Japanese did to sacrifice themselves.

High on the hill, Ikeda saw the line of Americans emerge from the surrounding jungle. His attention was soon drawn to one American in particular — a lone soldier in a wide-brimmed hat who stepped out of the jungle shadows and into the light.

Something about the man’s figure looked familiar. Had Ikeda seen him before? And then in a flash of recognition, he knew — this was the same American soldier he had encountered during the earlier raid on the hill. Most GIs wore helmets, but this soldier wore a hat like the Australians — or maybe like a cowboy. The American sniper stood there for a moment, alone, as if taunting Ikeda, although that was impossible. The American couldn’t possibly know that Ikeda was there. Or did he?

Ikeda was so taken aback that he didn’t have time to shoot before the American launched himself at the trenches, jumped down, and disappeared. Incredulous, Ikeda cursed. He had missed his chance.

More American soldiers poured from the underbrush. Ikeda fired, but running shots were never easy, even for a skilled marksman such as himself. He fired again and again. Some of his targets fell and did not rise again, but others kept going and disappeared into the trenches.

Within seconds, there were no more targets. This must be an advance force, he thought. The Americans couldn’t be so arrogant that they actually thought that they could take his hill with a relatively small number of men — no more than a company. To take this hill, didn’t they know that they would need an army? The Americans were in for a surprise if they thought that this would be an easy fight. Such arrogance!

The thought angered him. He kept the rifle sights trained on the trench, but no targets presented themselves.

Morosawa nudged him. The other sniper was smiling. He held up two fingers. “I got two.”

“Well done, Kazuyuki.” Ikeda nodded in approval, then turned back to his rifle scope. If his sogekihei squad member had already shot two, then Ikeda had some catching up to do.

Patrol Easy had taken the first trench alongside B Company, anchoring the right flank. Peering over the lip of the trench, Deke could see the summit of Hill 522, with its cave-like artillery emplacement near the top. That was their destination if they hoped to silence the battery that was tearing hell out of the beach and landing craft.

As he watched, a tongue of flame and smoke licked from the mouth of the cave. The shell was headed for the vessels ferrying men and supplies to the beach. Deke wondered if this same battery had sunk the landing craft carrying him to shore. If so, knocking it out would be sweet revenge.

Now what? They needed to knock out that battery. Just a few hundred feet to go, Deke thought.

Not far. A man could easily stroll that distance in a few minutes and toss in a couple of grenades. But this was no walk through a field of daisies.

Might as well be a hundred miles away.

With their Nambu machine guns, the Japanese had cleverly set up overlapping fields of fire that would mow down any squad that attempted to advance. No, there would be no strolling. The only way across that killing field was crawling on your belly, one desperate yard at a time.

Deke wasn’t looking forward to it. Meanwhile, every Japanese in the neighborhood would be trying to pick them off.

He heard a sneeze and realized that it had come from somewhere up ahead, beyond where the GIs had advanced. Startled, he realized that he’d just heard a Japanese sneeze. It was a reminder of just how close they were to the enemy.

“What do you think, Deke?” Philly asked. He crouched in the trench a few feet away, peering over the rim at the same no-man’s-land that Deke was looking at. “I’ve got to admit, I’d rather walk down the worst dark alley in Philadelphia at midnight than try to cross that patch of ground.”

“An alley at midnight? You know me, being a country boy and all, I ain’t sure which is worse, an alley or this hillside. I never had much use for cities. What I do know is that we’ve got to take this hill, Japs or no Japs.”

“I was afraid you’d say something like that.”

“What we’re gonna do is pick off these sons of bitches one at a time.”

“You seriously think you’re going to shoot all those machine gunners?”

“Ain’t got much choice.” Deke spat a mouthful of dry grit into the sandy soil. “You got a better idea?”

“Yeah, how about a boat ticket back to Hawaii?”

Deke snorted. “You just watch how it’s done. Oh, and keep your head down. You too, Yoshio.”

The young Nisei interpreter nodded grimly.

“Those Japs are all dug in,” Philly said. “We can’t even see them. How are you supposed to shoot ’em if we don’t even know where they’re shooting out of?”

It was a fair question. For some reason it prompted a boyhood memory. Deke recalled, as a young boy, watching a calf being born. He had already been witness to the barnyard amour that resulted in pregnant heifers and sows, so he knew how those babies got in. Children learned about the “birds and bees” quite young on the farm. He remembered asking his father how people’s babies got out. His pa had just grinned and said, “The same way they got in, son.” That had been an eye-opener for the young Deacon Cole.

He thought about that now. “You know how bullets get in, Philly? The same way they get out.”

“I’ll just pretend that I know what you’re talking about.”

“Listen, you two watch the trench on both sides of us and make sure no Japs come sneaking up.”

Deke settled behind the rifle, welcoming the familiar feel of the smooth stock against his cheek and the way that the stock fit into his shoulder. Until now, there hadn’t been any need for precision shooting. They had taken the trench by brute force.

Through the scope, the Japanese lines sprang closer. He was able to pick out details — a rock that hid a Japanese soldier here, a sandbag with a rifle barrel poking out there. Plenty of targets, all within sneezing distance.

He realized that during their whole time on the ship, this was just what he had been waiting for. Hell, this was what he’d been born for. Deke wondered sometimes if there was something wrong with him because he liked this so much. Other men found themselves paralyzed with fear, but not Deke. Sure, he might die in the next few minutes, but until that moment came, he had never felt so keenly alive.

Hidden behind the scope and the stock, a hint of a smile crossed the good side of his face. It wasn’t a pleasant smile, but one that hinted at meanness. Deke tried to be a good person in his own way, but the war had opened up someplace hot and cruel in more than one man, a bit of hellfire seeping out the way that lava spills from fissures in the earth.

It wasn’t long before a burst of fire erupted from the slope above, trying to flush out the Americans in the trench. The bluish tracers streaked through the air just inches above the dirt. Bullets pockmarked the area all around the trenches where the Americans had taken shelter, forcing them to keep their heads down. Their attack was completely stalled.

Deke couldn’t see a target, so he was relying on instinct. He could see the dark hole, some kind of bunker, that the shots had erupted from. But there wasn’t anyone to shoot at.

How does a bullet get in? The same way it gets out.

He lined up on the dark hole and squeezed the trigger. The merciless tap, tap, tap of the Nambu abruptly fell silent.

“You got him!” Philly shouted.

“Don’t get too riled up,” Deke said. “There’s a lot more where he came from.”

Unfortunately, that was more than true. Fire from the machine guns and entrenched Japanese troops forced the GIs to keep their heads down. They kept up constant return fire, but with little effect. The tap, tap, tap of the Nambu continued to echo across the hillside.

The day’s shadows lengthened as the sun began to settle toward the horizon, becoming an angry red ball over the hill’s shoulder so that they were shooting into the glare, making their task even harder.

After his initial luck against the enemy, Deke couldn’t seem to pick off any more machine gunners. Maybe they had gotten wise to him and had withdrawn deeper into their hidey-holes. He settled for whatever targets he could find, Philly calling some of them through the binoculars. The Japs were close enough that he caught glimpses of enemy faces through the scope. He pulled the trigger again and again.

He took a breath, and the gunpowder’s lingering acrid taste remained on his tongue and clung to the back of his throat. The smell and taste were not altogether unpleasant, as anyone who loved shooting could tell you.

On the other side, the Japs were doing the same, plying their own deadly trade. They had the advantage of deep defenses, located higher up than the trench. Like the Americans, they clearly had a few snipers at work. The enemy snipers watched and waited. Not all the soldiers who were part of the US assault force were as experienced as the men of Patrol Easy. More than one exposed himself too long after taking a shot, only to fall prey to one of the Japanese snipers.

In particular, many of the most accurate shots originated from a stretch of the enemy defenses almost directly across from Deke. There would be a shot, then a sudden cry or curse, or worse yet — an empty silence as a soldier fell dead instantly.

Deke couldn’t help but think of the sniper that he had tangled with on his last trip up this hill. Could it possibly be the same Japanese sniper?

“I’d like to shoot that bugger,” Deke said. “He’s got us pinned down good.”

Philly stared through the binoculars. “No sign of him.”

During lulls in the fire, they could hear murmured snatches of Japanese voices.

“Yoshio, what are they saying?” Deke asked.

The interpreter cocked an ear in the direction of the Japanese lines to listen but finally shook his head. “They are too far away to hear.”

“Why don’t you ask them to surrender?” Philly suggested.

Yoshio stared at him as if he might have cracked, but then a slow smile spread across his face. “Why not?”

He started to raise himself even with the top of the trench, but Deke tugged him back down. “Easy there, cowboy. Keep your head down.”

Yoshio stayed down, gathering his words.

As Yoshio studied the Japanese trenches during this lull in the fighting, Deke studied him in turn. He thought that it couldn’t have been easy to be in Yoshio’s shoes, fighting against people whom you might even be related to in some way. Sure, Yoshio called himself an American, but there was no denying the fact that he was also Japanese. Like it or not, Yoshio had a lot more in common with the enemy than he did with Americans from city tenements or the hills of Tennessee.

Also, Yoshio was not a natural-born hard case like Deke, or even a tough-talking city boy like Philly. It didn’t matter that Yoshio was roughly the same age as Deke. From Deke’s point of view, Yoshio had a naivete or innocence that made him seem younger than his years.

If Deke had known Yoshio’s whole story, he might have reconsidered. He didn’t know how Yoshio’s family had worked hard on their West Coast farm, trying to be good neighbors, but had also been held apart because of their Japanese heritage.

For Yoshio, no matter how much he wanted to be seen as American or how much he considered himself to be one, he and his family were always segregated because of the color of their skin and their distinctive Asian features. Then had come the war, which made matters worse. His family, along with other Japanese Americans in their community, had been forced off their land and into internment camps — perceived as a threat by their neighbors and their government.

In the early days of the war, there had been real fears about a Japanese invasion or sabotage on the heels of Pearl Harbor. In hindsight, the internment camps would be viewed as a terrible injustice.

Yoshio had seen the heartbreak of his mother having to choose what few family heirlooms she could take with her into captivity.

Some of their non-Japanese neighbors had been helpful, even embarrassed by what was taking place. They promised to maintain the property for however long this nightmare lasted for Yoshio’s family.

Those were the decent people.

Others had been greedy, offering to purchase the land for a ridiculously low price or hoping to get a bargain on the family’s household goods. When moving day came — a hurried affair carried out under the watchful eye of armed soldiers — some neighbors had shown up to help. Others came looking for bargains, not much different from crows or buzzards picking over a roadkill.

What they could bring with them was limited to a single suitcase. There wasn’t even enough room to bring extra clothes or bedding. A lifetime of possessions and all the farm equipment had to be left behind.

Yoshio had watched his mother agonize over bringing a teapot and cups that had come all the way from Japan, brought over by her grandparents. The delicate porcelain had occupied a place of honor in the house and been used only for special occasions. The space in the suitcase would have been better put to use for warm clothes rather than a teapot.

One of the neighbors, a man whom Yoshio had never particularly liked and who had a big house at the edge of town, had sensed his mother’s dilemma as she cradled the teapot in her hands.

“I’ll give you two dollars for that,” he’d said. He wore a smug smile. “Where you’re going, you can probably use the money.”

His mother had glared at the man in a rare show of anger. Her eyes said it all. Two dollars for an heirloom that is priceless to my family?

The man appeared oblivious. When his mother didn’t respond, he’d said, “All right, you Japs drive a hard bargain. I’ll give you three dollars if you toss in that stack of plates over there.”

To Yoshio’s astonishment, his mother hadn’t said a word but had raised the teapot over her head, preparing to smash it to the wooden floor. Yoshio held his breath.

Another neighbor stepped forward, a widow who had a plot of land and a modest house down the road from his family. She held out her hands to Yoshio’s mother. “Let me keep it safe for you,” the woman had said. “When you come back, I’ll have that teapot waiting for you.”

With a nod, his mother had handed over the teapot. The neighbor took it with the same care that women used cradling an infant.

That day had been a display of human nature, the good with the bad.

His father had stood mutely, looking out at the fields, saying goodbye to the land. And then they had been taken by truck and train to a distant camp and forced to live in canvas tents and rough barracks. The food was of poor quality, and there wasn’t enough fuel to heat their shelters. To make things worse, no provisions had been made for young children to attend school. A few of the young women organized classes so that the children’s reading, writing, and math skills did not languish completely.

Yoshio had volunteered to fight, joining the ranks of the Nisei, not only to do his duty to his country, but also to prove a point. He was just as American as any man in this army. The road hadn’t been easy. The drill instructors had been extra hard on the Nisei recruits and reluctant to let them train with actual rifles, as if they still didn’t trust them. Maybe some of the soldiers nearby still didn’t trust him.

This was the “kid” whom Deke fought beside.

Now Yoshio served as their ears on this hillside, trying to piece together the snatches of conversation overheard from the Japanese. If any prisoners were taken, it would be Yoshio’s task to interview them to gain any nuggets of intelligence. He’d had a chance to talk with some of the Japanese captured on Guam, but so far there had been precious few prisoners taken on Leyte.

Most Japanese troops would rather die by their own hand than surrender. It was a brutal fact of war that some American troops didn’t trust the Japanese who tried to give themselves up. They were simply shot. In fact, it was often only the badly wounded who fell into American hands. The GIs weren’t afraid of them, and they were too weak to take their own lives.

Following Deke’s advice to keep his head down, Yoshio leaned back against the trench, took a deep breath, and shouted something in Japanese.

There had been snatches of conversation drifting toward them previously from the enemy trenches, but now a stunned silence followed.

Curious, Philly asked, “What did you say to them?”

“I finally did what you suggested, Philly. I asked them to surrender.”

“Well, it’s about time somebody listened to me,” Philly said. He nodded in the direction of the enemy trenches. “They’re pretty quiet all of a sudden. Maybe they’re thinking it over.”

The silence did not last long. A shouted reply came from the Japanese side, followed by a fresh flurry of gunshots.

“What did he say?”

“He said that I am a traitor to the Emperor.”

“I can think of worse insults than that.”

“You don’t understand,” Yoshio explained. “For a Japanese, there is no worse insult.”

“You don’t look none too bothered by it,” Philly said.

“That is because I am not Japanese. I am an American. What do I care about the Emperor?”

From over on the enemy’s side, there came more shouts and gunshots.

Deke grinned. “Nice going, kid. I reckon you managed to rile them boys up.”