Jungle Sniper

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

The stalemate between the Japanese and the GIs continued as the shadows on the hill deepened. On the American side, they knew it couldn’t last for long. The hill needed to be taken. They would have to keep pushing. There were constant radio messages demanding progress updates.

“They’ve got a timetable they want us to keep back at HQ, huh? Well, the Japs have got a different timetable. We’ll take this hill when we’ve taken it, that’s when, and not a minute sooner,” an officer grumbled under his breath.

But it was not how he replied over the radio.

“Yes, sir!” The brass didn’t want to hear any griping or excuses. Up on Hill 522, the officer’s official reply was simply, “Situation progressing.”

He clicked off before he heard any response. There was an unwritten rule that an officer who hoped to keep advancing in his career knew to say as little as possible while expressing a can-do attitude. That and not getting killed by Japanese snipers was a good strategy for moving up the ranks.

With night coming on, the idea of progress on the battlefield seemed optimistic. All the while the enemy gun battery kept up its fire, wreaking who knew how much havoc on the American forces on the beach below.

Each concussion of the enemy guns served as a reminder of unfinished business. The Japs still held the hilltop. The big ships of the American fleet kept silent for fear of dropping a shell on the heads of their own troops on the hill.

From time to time, an American plane swooped in low and hammered the hilltop, trying to knock out the battery. The sight brought cheers from the GIs assaulting the hill, but their joy was short lived. Despite the efforts of the bravest pilots, the cave was too deep and well defended by antiaircraft guns. After tangling with the Japanese defenders on Hill 522, one or two planes limped away, trailing black smoke.

“We’ve got to take this hill,” said Philly, hunkered down in the trench.

“Sure we do, but there are a whole lot of Japs who don’t want to give it up,” Deke pointed out.

“The Japs didn’t stop us the last time we were here,” Philly said. “They won’t stop us now.”

Deke didn’t say anything. He knew that Philly was right, but he couldn’t help remembering the sight of those headless corpses of the Filipino guerrillas who had died here that last time. The Nips were ruthless, all right. They would be a tough nut to crack.

As if to serve as a reminder that time was wasting, the shadows cast by the overripe sun elongated into dappled fingers that stretched across the killing field. The shadows created a perfect camouflage for the Japanese infiltrators who began to creep toward American lines.

These enemy troops were armed with hand grenades rather than rifles, their only goal being to move close enough to toss the grenades into the trenches occupied by the Americans. Now and then a Japanese soldier popped into view as he got to his knees to hurl a grenade. Heck, the Japanese could just about roll the grenades down at the Americans.

Sometimes the Americans got lucky and shot the enemy soldier before he could release the grenade. The enemy grenades also had one major shortcoming. While American grenades were activated by pressing on the charging handle and pulling out the pin, the Japanese version was activated by a sharp knock — usually against a rock or even more often against a soldier’s own helmet. The telltale sound gave the Americans warning of each grenade attack.

To see a Japanese soldier hit himself in the head before hurling his grenade was almost a comical sight, except for the fact that the grenades often made it into the trenches and exploded with devastating effect. The Japanese fragmentation grenades were somewhat weaker than what the GIs used, but you didn’t want to be anywhere near one when it went off.

Meanwhile, the Japanese sniper somewhere across from them kept up his harassing fire. He had claimed more than a few American lives — he seemed to shoot the instant some poor GI made the mistake of sticking his head up from the trench or out from behind a rock. The GIs couldn’t stay down all the time because they had to keep a lookout for infiltrators and defend against them.

Deke knew the Japanese sniper was hidden in the adjacent trenches, but he hadn’t been able to get a bead on him. The sniper must have been dug in and well hidden. Considering that the Japanese had been up here building their defenses on this hill for weeks or even months, he would have had plenty of time to create the perfect sniper’s nest.

An unsettling aspect of this fight was that the Japanese were close enough to be heard in the American lines, and the inability of the American troops to press forward had made the enemy bold enough to taunt them.

From time to time they heard the taunts in broken English:

“Hey, Charlie! How you doing, Charlie? Listen good now. We going to kill you.”

“You Japs stink like rotten fish,” one of the GIs shouted. “I can smell you from here.”

“American, you smell like rotten meat. Perhaps we are already smelling the rotting corpses of your friends that we have killed. You will rot next to them soon.”

Off to Deke’s right, Philly couldn’t resist responding. “I’d like to see you try!”

The gibe was followed by a bullet that cut the air not far from Deke’s head.

Philly swore. “That was close.”

“Best keep your head down, Philly,” Deke said. “Don’t let these Nips get you all hot and bothered. It’s just what they want.”

“I am crack shot,” the Japanese voice called in heavily accented English. “Put your head up and I will show you.”

The voice seemed to be coming from the vicinity of where the Japanese sniper was hidden. With a jolt of realization that struck him hard as a bullet, Deke realized that it must be the Japanese sniper himself who was taunting them.

“Son of a bitch,” Deke muttered, leaning into the rifle and hoping for a shot. “I’d sure like to nail that Jap’s hide to the barn door.”

Judging by the growing number of taunts, several Japanese had at least a passing knowledge of English. But the language barrier was lopsided. On their own side, Yoshio was the only one who knew the enemy’s language.

Overall, it was a bizarre experience to be trading insults with the enemy. They were no longer anonymous Japanese soldiers, targets in their rifle sights. The exchange of prickly words had made the fight personal in an entirely new way.

Between the verbal barbs and the sniper’s bullets, Deke decided that he’d had enough. The enemy sniper was too dug in for him to see. He needed to goad the sniper into showing himself, but how?

He decided that he would try putting his hat on a stick so he could draw fire with it. He reckoned the sniper was too smart for old tricks, but you never knew. Before he tried the hat trick, Deke had a better idea. He turned toward Yoshio.

“Hey, kid. You said that they hurled a big insult at you by saying that you were a traitor to the Emperor.”

“That’s right. As if I had anything to do with the Emperor in the first place.”

“What would be a big ol’ insult to shout back at the Japs?”

Yoshio smiled. “Oh, I could think of a few.”

“Like what?”

“How about calling them barbarians? They would hate that. Even the lowliest Japanese soldier believes that Americans are inferior savages, so they would be truly insulted.”

“Sounds good to me. Go on and give it to them in their own language.”

Nodding, Yoshio took a deep breath and let loose a diatribe in Japanese. He fired words at the same rate as a machine gun. Deke couldn’t understand any of it, but he supposed it was sufficiently scathing, judging by the increased rate of fire in their direction once Yoshio had finished.

“Hey, Charlie! Show yourself! I promise not to shoot.”

Yoshio wasn’t falling for that. He settled deeper into the trench, a big grin on his face. “That felt good.”

Deke decided to join the fun. He shouted, “Y’all couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.”

In response, a single shot cracked overhead. “How about that, Charlie? That close enough for you?”

“You missed!” he taunted.

“Put up your head and see if I miss again.”

“Who are you?” Deke shouted.

There was a moment’s hesitation. “I am Gunsō Ikeda.”

Deke glanced at Yoshio, who explained, “Gunsō means that he’s like a sergeant. Sergeant Ikeda.”

Deke raised his voice. “Sergeant Ikeda, huh? This here is Private Deacon Cole, United States Army. I reckon we’ve met before, on my last trip up this hill. Stick your own head up and see what happens.”

There was a long pause as the Japanese sniper processed what Deke had just said. “You! You were a raider? Cowardly American!” As if to punctuate the words, a bullet spit gravel and dirt from the lip of the trench.

“Aw, you missed again.” He looked at Yoshio once more. “How was that? You reckon I got him riled up?”

“Not bad, but this is better.” Yoshio added his own stream of invective in Japanese. The sniper responded in kind.

Deke was curious. “What did you say to him?”

“I said that his ancestors must have, uh, you know… consorted with goats, or possibly sheep.”

“I’m impressed, kid. That was a pretty good insult. I reckon he didn’t like that.”

“He said that if he catches me, he will gut me like a fish while I am still alive.”

“Sounds to me like he’s an irritable son of a bitch. I believe he’d make good on that threat. Just to be on the safe side, you’d better not get caught.”

Throughout the verbal exchange with the enemy, both Deke and Philly had been watching the Japanese position carefully. The enemy sniper already knew where they were, but now they had a better idea of where he was hidden. Philly had binoculars pressed to his eyes.

“Talk to me, Philly.”

Philly needed to paint a picture in words. “See that pile of three rocks, with the one rock that kind of has a black splash on it? Maybe dried blood or something? It’s right across from us, but more like the one-o’clock position than high noon.”

Deke’s eye stared intently through the scope. “I see it.”

“I’ll bet there’s a rifle pit behind those rocks. He’s got to be in there.”

“Keep an eye on him. Let me see if I can stir the pot.”

Deke now had a better idea of where the sniper was hidden. Again he was reminded of the fact that unlike the Americans, the Japanese defenders would have had time to prepare. The enemy sniper could have made the smallest of openings through those rocks for his rifle barrel. The enemy sniper had every advantage.

Peering through the scope, Deke spotted a dark crevice at the base of the rocks.

He became aware that the air tasted dry, parched. Just like how his throat felt after the brisk hike up the hill. But there was no time to take a drink now. He felt an insect buzzing in his ear but ignored it. The only thing that mattered in all the world right now was the image in his telescopic sight.

Through the lens, he studied the crevice. It looked to him like it might be the perfect hiding place. If he’d been in that Japanese sniper’s shoes, it was just where he’d be.

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

To Deke’s eye, the crevice suddenly resembled a crooked smile, its dirty lips seeming to brush against the scope, kissing the glass for a moment.

He put his sights on the crevice, looking for a way in.

At first, upon hearing the taunts from the American, Ikeda felt furious. He knew enough English to understand the insults, and as if to be certain that he had not missed anything, that traitor of an interpreter had added insult to injury in Japanese.

Suddenly, shooting the other man didn’t seem to be enough. Ikeda wanted nothing more than to run down that slope and bury his knife deep into the other sniper, not to mention the interpreter.

At least he knew the sniper’s name: Deacon Cole. What kind of a name was that? In Ikeda’s mind, most Americans were named Jimmy, Bill, or Charlie. The names all sounded similar, just as the white faces of the Americans all looked the same to him.

But then a wry smile came to Ikeda’s face as he realized the sheer audacity of shouting insults at him even as the enemy’s position was peppered with machine guns and mortar fire. The enemy was truly laughing in the face of death, which was something that Ikeda appreciated. Ikeda was not much for laughter, but neither would he blink an eye when faced with death.

Was the enemy sniper enjoying this game? Ikeda felt slightly unsettled, wondering what sort of enemy he had run up against.

He supposed that he and the other sniper were forged from the same metal. That didn’t mean Ikeda wouldn’t kill him, given half a chance. He might respect the enemy, but he had no fondness or softness toward him. He hated the Americans all the same.

With renewed resolve, Ikeda got a new grip on his rifle and scanned the slope through his telescopic site. The jeering from the enemy had been foolish in that it had helped to reveal the other sniper’s position, but the man was not so much of a fool to put himself in Ikeda’s sights.

Maybe he could change that.

Ikeda shouted back, hoping to goad the enemy into showing himself: “We have women in Japan who are better shots than you. Are you listening, Deacon Cole?”

“I heard you loud and clear, Ikeda. I’d sure like to meet one of them girls,” the American replied, the man’s hard drawl floating across the no-man’s-land. “I reckon I will, soon as I get to Japan. Won’t be long now.”

Ikeda gritted his teeth. The thought of Americans in Japan was almost too much to bear. That is why we must defeat them here, on Leyte. Each day that we do not crush them brings them closer to Japan.

“Do not rest too easy, Deacon Cole,” Ikeda replied. “You will be dead by morning. If I don’t shoot you, then one of our glorious fighters will kill you tonight.”

“You can try,” came the reply. The American did not sound particularly concerned. “Sneakin’ around is the only chance you cowards have to win.”

Ikeda couldn’t bring himself to respond. He would not give his enemy the satisfaction of an answer, but he wondered if the response was part of the plan to intimidate him. It was part of the game, after all. Marksman against marksman.

“What’s the matter, Ikeda? Cat got your tongue?”

“I do not want to play games,” Ikeda said. “Why waste my breath?”

“I’ve been watching you since I got up here on this hill. I know all I need to know. I know you can’t shoot worth a damn.”

Ikeda’s anger flared up, and his breath grew rough, but he clenched his teeth and said nothing. He would not be baited into this childish game. He had resolved to do whatever it would take to bring down the other sniper, even if it meant enduring insults.

Again, Ikeda forced himself to tamp down the anger. It was just what the enemy wanted — to make him lose his composure, but that was not going to happen.

He scanned the ground opposite him through the scope. The no-man’s-land was parched by the sun and torn by artillery shells, but there was no clear target.

The enemy occupied the other side of the no-man’s-land, set up in trenches dug by the Japanese themselves. They hid behind sandbags and earthworks, their heads poking out to take shots at the Japanese.

Just for good measure, Ikeda fired a shot in the direction that he thought the voice had come from.

“You missed,” came the reply. There was a cold laugh. “Aim a little to the left next time.”

“Put your head up and see what happens next,” Ikeda shouted.

Something moved across from him. A hat flashed into view. Ikeda recognized the flat-brimmed hat that he remembered the enemy sniper wearing during the raid. Instantly his sights lined up on the hat and his finger touched the trigger.

In reply a rifle shot cracked past his head, so close that he felt it disturb the very air around him. He flinched and sank deeper into his hiding place. Another shot ricocheted off the rock at the opening of his shooting spot.

Too late he realized that the hat must have been on a stick. The oldest trick in the world, and he had fallen for it, revealing his hiding place in the process.

He heard the oddly grating, drawling voice. “Damn, not bad, Ikeda. You done shot a hole in my hat. Too bad for you that it ain’t on my head.”

Ikeda didn’t bother to reply but chewed his lip and decided to wait for dark. Now that the American sniper knew where he was hidden, it would be too risky to try to move while it was still daylight.

Shadows were already gathering at the base of the hill, almost like an incoming tide. Only the summit remained bathed in the last light of the sun, touched by the gold and red of a Pacific sunset.

A revving engine overhead caught his attention. The evening sunlight caught the wings of a lone American fighter plane that came in low and strafed the summit, moving at such an incredible speed that the antiaircraft batteries only managed to raise puffs of smoke in its wake. The plane swiftly flew out to sea, back toward the aircraft carrier that had launched it.

Ikeda sighed. Where was the Imperial fleet that had been promised to crush the Americans? If the battle was not to be won on the ocean, then it must be won here on land, starting on this hill.

So far he had not been able to shoot the American sniper. Perhaps he would go down the hill tonight and stick a knife into the American after all. That would certainly be satisfying — even better than a bullet.