Jungle Sniper

CHAPTER SIX

The two Japanese soldiers watched intently as workers toiled to complete the defenses on the beach and beyond.

“These lazy fools must work harder!” declared Major Hisako Noguchi, watching the defensive preparations that were continuing to take place on Guinhangdan Hill, what the Americans called Hill 522, one of the anchors of the Japanese defenses on Leyte. He used his walking stick to point at one of the soldiers deepening a trench. “You there, put your back into it!”

“Perhaps you should hit them with that stick instead of just pointing it at them, sir,” said Akio Ikeda, who stood beside the major, watching the work take place. The major was something of a paper tiger. If the soldier that the major had just scolded began to dig faster, it was most likely because Sergeant Ikeda stood nearby.

But Ikeda was not satisfied. He shouted at the soldier, “Dig, damn you! You will wish that trench was even deeper once the Americans land on that beach, but it will be too late by then.”

The chastened soldier redoubled his efforts. Dirt flew as the shovel bit into the rocky soil. Noguchi gave a harumph of annoyance and turned away.

Everywhere that it was feasible, the island was being converted to a fortress. Extra attention had been given to several hills, including Hill 522, in hopes that the high ground would provide the Japanese artillery an advantage over the invading Americans.

The Japanese strategy would not be to meet the Americans on the beaches. While the landing would not be entirely unopposed, the Japanese had always seen the advantage of inland defenses.

To that end, bunkers had been built under the hills, like a massive honeycomb, over the weeks leading up to the invasion. They had been dug deep into the hillsides and reinforced when the reports indicated that the Americans were coming. And now, with the Americans approaching the island, those bunkers were being filled with men, ammunition, and grenades.

With the major’s permission, Ikeda had given special attention to the creation of rifle pits. Ikeda was a gunsō, or sergeant. He carried a rifle with a telescopic sight. He commanded the sogekihei squad — men with special ability as sharpshooters. These men would be on the front lines once the American attack came, as it surely would.

In many ways, Ikeda had become the major’s right-hand man. The two were as different as tea and sake. Noguchi was more of an engineer than a soldier. In fact, he had built houses and roads in civilian life before the war. His uniform always managed to appear rumpled and dusty, attesting to the fact that he was an engineer first and a soldier second, happiest when he was elbow deep in a hole somewhere.

Short and near to plump, he spent his days shoring up the defenses wherever he could. He was a familiar figure, huffing and puffing as he made his way through the network of defensive trenches on his short legs. He waved his walking stick when he became agitated, but the troops and soldiers knew that his bark was worse than his bite.

Ikeda was the one to be feared. Ikeda was definitely the sake part of the equation. When he moved through the trenches or the nearby jungle, he moved with a supple and lithe energy that more closely resembled one of Japan’s fabled Tsushima leopard cats.

Also, he was never without his Arisaka rifle with its telescopic sight. There were rumors that he sometimes drank too much and sat up here on the hill, shooting Filipino laborers in the distance. Looking into his dark eyes, the rumors were easy to believe. The major might complain and cajole, but it was Ikeda who would make sure that his orders were carried out.

The two men walked on, Ikeda trailing a respectful distance at Noguchi’s elbow. Noguchi was an officer, after all, and several years older. Ikeda never lost sight of the fact that the major had transformed this hilltop into a formidable fortress — Ikeda’s sense of strategy was limited to what he could put his rifle sights on and shoot. There would be time for shooting soon enough. Until then they could all be thankful for Noguchi’s talents, Ikeda included.

“Sir, when do you think that the Americans will arrive?”

Noguchi chuckled. “You may as well ask when the next typhoon will hit.”

Thinking about the vast force that was surely arrayed against them, Ikeda decided that a typhoon was an apt analogy. Both were unstoppable forces. “We know that a typhoon will arrive sooner or later, just as we know the enemy will.”

Noguchi lowered his voice, even though there was no one in the vicinity to overhear him. “I have seen the reports from the spotter planes. They have detected that the American invasion fleet is only a short distance away. One or two days, at most.”

“If the spotter planes have found them, then our fleet must destroy them!” Ikeda said hotly. “Our planes must send them to the bottom of the sea!”

Noguchi sighed. “If only it were that easy. The enemy is well prepared, Sergeant. They have vast numbers of planes, and we do not — at least, not anymore. The ships carrying their troops are well screened by their destroyers, battleships, and cruisers. We can hope that the navy will crush them or that our planes will bomb them, but in the end, it will be up to us to stop them from recapturing the Philippines.”

Ikeda touched his rifle. “Hai!”

“There have also been rumors of attacks on outlying island outposts,” Noguchi added. “There is no doubt that the Americans are closing in. Mark my words, Sergeant. They will bring the battle to us soon.”

“I do not fear the Americans. Let them come.”

They both looked out at the sparkling sea. For the moment, at least, the vast blue water remained empty. Even the Japanese vessels that had been in the area seemed to have been withdrawn. It was hard for Ikeda to register how he would feel if that sea suddenly filled with American ships.

Those ships would target and shell whatever Japanese fortifications they could find, including this hill. That was exactly why Noguchi had dug the defenses so deep. Most of the hilltop had been stripped of trees, although there were still vestiges of jungle in the lower reaches. The hill somewhat resembled a bald man with a fringe of hair.

Just a short time ago, the defenses had lost some of their teeth when American raiders, helped by Filipino guerrillas, had come ashore and managed to destroy the hill’s battery of massive guns. These had been intended as a deterrent to the invasion, with the ability to sink enemy ships beyond the horizon. There had also been “beehive” shells, almost like a giant shotgun blast, with the ability to sweep enemy aircraft from the skies.

However, the small group of raiders had managed to destroy the battery. It went without saying that Ikeda felt bitter that the American raiders had escaped — although a handful of guerrillas had been captured and killed. Ikeda was intrigued by the fact that at least one of the men had been a sniper, judging by the rifle with its telescopic sight that the US soldier had carried. The man hadn’t worn a helmet like the others but had donned a bush hat with one side pinned up, giving him a distinctive look. Ikeda would have liked to have shown him just who the better shot was, but there had been no opportunity to settle that score. Maybe Ikeda would have a chance to do just that once the Americans invaded.

Ikeda had felt the loss bitterly as a personal loss of face. After all, it had been Ikeda and his squad who were tasked with defending the hill. Major Noguchi had been more pragmatic in the wake of the raid. He had wasted no time in clearing the wreckage of the big guns and installing a smaller artillery battery in the bunker.

“Let them come,” Noguchi said with satisfaction. “The enemy will pay dearly!”

Noguchi was making no idle boast. The hill was nearly a perfect natural fortress, with the muddy Bangon River running along the base and serving as a kind of moat. The river was too deep and swift to ford. At the base of the hillside that faced the sea, separated from the hill by the river, nestled the town of Palo.

This town had been a source of frustration, especially for Ikeda, who was tasked with controlling the local guerrillas, who constantly harassed the Japanese. They were the equivalent of the French Resistance. It was clear that the guerrillas were supported by the townspeople, with many of their husbands, fathers, and brothers in the ranks. These resistance fighters knew better than to launch an all-out assault on the Japanese, but their ambush attacks interfered with the supply chain and whittled away at Japanese morale. Many small groups of Japanese soldiers who had made the mistake of traveling the jungle roads alone had disappeared.

The town was provincial, with its key feature being its centuries-old Catholic cathedral. The church was woven through the fabric of the town, and Ikeda knew that its priest supported the rebels. When Ikeda had gone to arrest him, the man had slipped into the jungle and could not be found, warned by the townspeople. Now the priest was a thorn in Ikeda’s side, because he was living in the jungle with the Filipino guerrillas, providing them leadership and faith. If Ikeda ever caught that priest, there would be no mercy for a man of the cloth.

Meanwhile, Sergeant Ikeda took out his frustration on the town. He took his sogekihei squad door to door. Some of his men had been chosen for their ability with a rifle — he wanted a team of crack snipers — but they tended to be men who were discipline problems and that other units were more than glad to be rid of. Thanks to Ikeda, they now had the perverse sense of pride that came from being in a unit of fellow outcasts. They were also loyal to a fault.

“Spread out. You know what to do,” Ikeda told them.

His men seized extra food and even blankets that might go to help the guerrillas. If a young woman was dragged into a house or hut so that the soldiers could have their way with her, so be it. Anyone who opposed them faced a severe beating. The arrival of Ikeda and his squad had become a much-feared sight on the streets of Palo. To be sure, the Japanese would not find any friends among the local Filipino population.

Ikeda joined the men checking a house. A woman answered the door, fear etched on her face.

“The guerrillas,” Ikeda demanded. “Where are they?”

The woman shook her head and stammered a response that Ikeda could not understand.

Frustrated, he repeated his question, louder this time. The woman just shook her head.

One of the difficulties they faced was the language barrier. The townspeople did not know any Japanese — or at least they pretended not to. Ikeda and his men did not speak any of the local language and couldn’t be bothered to learn.

The only bridge across this language gap was English. The Americans had been a presence for so long in the Philippines that most of the townspeople knew at least a little English. Many Japanese also spoke some English.

Ikeda hated to use English, because it represented Japan’s enemy, but in this case it could not be avoided.

“Your man?” Ikeda asked. “Where is he?”

The woman looked surprised to hear the question in English. Without thinking, she blurted a reply, “The forest.”

Ikeda nodded curtly. In his mind, the woman had just confirmed that she collaborated with the guerrillas. In one smooth motion, he raised his rifle and struck the woman hard in the face. She cried out as she crumpled and then lay on the ground without a sound.

“Search the house,” he ordered his men. “Take anything of value.”

Stepping over the unconscious woman, Ikeda’s men hurried to ransack the house. They would gladly relieve this woman of her meager possessions and food supplies.

When she finally came to, wouldn’t she be surprised?

Ikeda had his reasons for such cruelty. After the raid that had destroyed the massive battery on the hill, Ikeda had wanted to take a large force of soldiers and punish the town — possibly even by putting it to the torch. Major Noguchi had a cooler head and would not allow it.

“Anyone who supports these guerrillas will be punished,” Noguchi had said. “Continue to do that, Ikeda. But show some restraint. Do not destroy the entire town, or you won’t just have me to answer to. General Yamashita himself would not be pleased. We must show restraint.”

Ikeda had obeyed orders, although he felt as if he had one hand tied behind his back as far as the town of Palo was concerned.

But he managed to take his revenge in other ways.

First, he had to wait for Major Noguchi to be out of the way. Although Noguchi tended to see his own men, and certainly the local Filipino laborers, more as a means to an end than as human beings, he was not overtly cruel. Ikeda had no such compunctions.

After a while, Noguchi was called elsewhere, occupied with another one of the problems that arose endlessly. He finally disappeared into the hilltop bunker that had once held the massive battery—before the American raiders had destroyed it, he thought bitterly.

Ikeda waved over one of his sogekihei, a silent man named Kazuyuki Morosawa. Although Morosawa was a good shot, Ikeda mainly appreciated the fact that Morosawa never seemed compelled to fill any silence with idle conversation. For a sniper, that could be a life-and-death quality.

Ikeda climbed higher on the hill, Morosawa following closely. Ikeda was in good shape, but the effort of climbing the steep hillside still made his heart pound. He mopped sweat from his face using a rag, then tied the rag around his head under his noncommissioned officer’s hat. For what he had planned, sweat running into his eyes would be an annoyance. Morosawa was sweating just as profusely, but he didn’t complain.

From up here, he had an even better view of the sparkling blue sea beyond, still blessedly empty of enemy ships. He also had an uninterrupted view of the long slope of the hillside below, where groups of men labored. This perspective of looking down on others and the heft of the rifle in his hands made Ikeda feel a little of the power possessed by a god. This must be how the Emperor himself felt. Ikeda had a high opinion of himself, but even he felt a twinge of unworthiness in comparing himself to anyone so exalted as the Emperor. Still, it was an incredible view.

However, Ikeda had not climbed up here to admire the scenery, beautiful as it was.

“Come on,” he said to Morosawa. “I want to reach the top before it gets any hotter.”

“Hai,” the man responded.

Ikeda moved on toward his destination. Hill 522 did not rise to a single peak but had a forked or Y shape toward the summit, with one branch of the Y slightly higher than the other. From the air, pilots said that the hill resembled the tip of a lizard’s forked tongue.

It was this higher branch of the hill’s summit on which the cave-like bunker was located. Ikeda felt reassured that Major Noguchi was still nowhere in sight. As much as he respected Noguchi, there were things that the major didn’t understand or even approve of.

The sun had climbed overhead, blazing in the humid sky almost like a light bulb swathed in cotton gauze. Ikeda found some shade in a machine-gun pit that had been carved into the slope. Netting had been strung up to provide camouflage from the marauding enemy aircraft that had begun to appear with more frequency in the skies above.

Ikeda settled into the hole and took a drink from his canteen, enjoying the shelter from the sun that the netting offered. Morosawa settled in nearby. Like Ikeda, he also carried a sniper’s rifle with a telescopic sight, but he kept it slung over one shoulder. He knew that Ikeda would tell him if and when he needed it. The other man sat quietly, not asking any questions. Ikeda was reminded of why he liked the man.

The shade from the netting was welcome. Below, the workers laboring across the hillside were not nearly so fortunate. The tropical sun beat down mercilessly upon them. Officers cajoled and berated the men to work harder, but the heat was taking its toll. Men who couldn’t keep up were sometimes kicked or hit with the sticks that the officers carried as a badge of authority.

Ikeda had no idea that Americans with their democratic ideals would have been astonished by this treatment of soldiers, but the Japanese enlisted man expected it. Japanese society had a strong class system in place, going back centuries to the era of the samurai. As part of the ruling class, officers were not to be questioned. Ikeda and his band of sogekihei fell somewhere outside the accepted order. They were more like ronin — ancient warriors who had served as roving mercenaries. Ikeda gave a rare smile at the thought.

The constant weeks of labor had taken their toll on the workforce below, leaving the troops exhausted, their uniforms looking worn out and dirty. Soon enough, they would still be expected to put down their shovels, pick up their rifles, and fight. It was a hard life without much to look forward to except achieving the final glory of death.

Ikeda put the rifle to his shoulder. This was a high-quality version of the standard Type 97 Arisaka rifle. Lately the rifles arriving with replacement troops had been of poor quality, made in a rush to meet wartime quotas, often using inferior materials, showing where corners had been cut in their blocky wooden stocks and roughly finished barrels and actions. His own rifle was one of the beautifully made early models that showed pride in craftsmanship.

The bolt-action rifle had been developed by its namesake, Japanese Army colonel Nariakira Arisaka, and adopted by the military in 1897. The rifle was reliable, in many ways the epitome of fine Japanese craftsmanship, but it had become somewhat dated in the intervening decades compared to the semiautomatic M1 rifles developed by the Americans.

Essentially, the rifle had changed little since its introduction, other than the fact that millions had been made for the war effort beginning in 1939.

Ikeda’s version had an effective range of fifteen hundred meters, which was farther than most of the sniping done in the jungle settings of the Pacific islands. He certainly wouldn’t be shooting at those ranges today — no more than a few hundred feet.

His Arisaka compared favorably to the Springfield rifle often used by US snipers, although it fired a lighter cartridge. Was one rifle better than the other? In many ways, it came down to the talents of the marksman. In Ikeda’s hands, the Arisaka was definitely a deadly weapon.

He studied the laboring men through the telescopic sight. He ignored the Japanese troops, focusing his attention elsewhere.

Mixed among the Japanese were groups of local Filipino laborers. It was these men whom Ikeda watched through the telescope. These men were little more than slave laborers, pressed into service without pay.

They were mostly a pathetic rabble, several of them too feeble for hard labor. These men shuffled back and forth under their burdens. Many of the more capable younger men had slipped into the jungle to fight with the guerrillas, meaning that the Filipino laborers were mostly men past their prime or barely more than boys. They might be locals, but they were not immune to the effects of the midday sun. The heat and humidity did no one any favors. Normally the local people knew better than to work during the heat of the day — the old Spanish tradition of the siesta wasn’t unknown in the Philippines.

There was no rest for these men, however. They knew there would be dire consequences if they sagged to their knees or dared to sit down. Their actions tended to slow as the heat grew, but their Japanese overseers were having none of it. If Japanese soldiers were berated, with an occasional smack with a stick or a kick in the hindquarters to serve as motivation, the Filipino laborers received far worse. They were treated cruelly by the officers and sergeants overseeing them. It was hard to say what the average Japanese soldier thought about the Filipinos — he was probably just glad that they were taking the worst of the punishment.

Nearby, Morosawa grunted with approval as they watched one of the laborers being struck with a stick. “Serves him right,” Morosawa said. “Those people are useless.”

“I am glad you agree,” Ikeda said. “Why stop at a stick?”

“Sergeant?”

Seeing Ikeda’s cold smile, Morosawa had figured out what Ikeda intended to do. For all his composure, Morosawa seemed shocked. “Are you going to shoot that man?” he asked, a little anxiously.

“Be quiet, Morosawa.”

In his heart, Ikeda felt no pity for these laborers. These men were nothing more than targets.

He settled the reticule on one of the laborers swinging a pickax. Tall for a Filipino, the man had stripped off his shirt. Ikeda put the sights right between his shoulder blades and squeezed the trigger just as the man raised the pick for another swing. The rifle bucked against Ikeda’s shoulder, and he watched with satisfaction through the scope as his target crumpled.

The rifle shot had not gone unnoticed. Many heads looked up the hill in Ikeda’s direction, wondering who was shooting. Of course Ikeda himself was hidden in the rifle pit.

Sergeant Ikeda’s next target was a group of laborers working near one of the trenches. They were loading bundles of brush over their shoulders and carrying them to the trench to be used to build low protective walls of dirt and brush. The laborers appeared to be moving at a snail’s pace. Ikeda didn’t know who was in charge of this group, but he suspected that it must be one of the softer officers. Several of those laborers would have benefited from a good beating.

He put the rifle sights on the last man in the line — the slowest one. Little did the man know that he had just seconds to live. It gave the sniper such a sense of power. A satisfied smile crossed Ikeda’s face. He might stay up here all day, shooting to his heart’s content.

But that was not to be the case. Major Noguchi appeared in the mouth of the bunker above Ikeda’s position.

“Who is shooting?” he demanded.

Reluctantly, Ikeda rose from his hiding spot, wondering if perhaps he had taken things too far. Morosawa did the same.

Ikeda stood at attention and saluted the major. “Sir!”

“Sergeant Ikeda, you will stop that immediately!” For once, Noguchi appeared furious. However, it became clear that his anger was not motivated by any compassion for Ikeda’s victims. “Stop shooting my laborers! We have discussed this, Ikeda. How will we get any work done if you keep shooting them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Watch out, or you will be the one using the shovel, Ikeda.”

“Hai!”

Noguchi paused long enough to give Ikeda a long glare, then disappeared back into the bunker.

Ikeda shrugged off Noguchi’s warning, but he decided not to press his luck by shooting at more of the laborers.

He looked down the slope. He could see the body fallen in the dirt. Such a little man. He looks like a bundle of sticks and rags. No one will even miss him. The laborers kept making nervous glances up the slope now that Ikeda had shown himself. Some of the officers waved their sticks in his direction, but he was too far away to hear whether they were cursing him or applauding his efforts in punishing another lazy laborer.

Once again Sergeant Ikeda had lived up to his reputation.

What reputation was that? A madman, a loose cannon, someone to be feared. Ikeda did not actually consider himself to be any of these things, but he liked keeping everyone off balance.

Then again, shooting laborers was little more than target practice. He yearned for the days to come, when he and his band of sogekihei snipers would have real targets once the Americans came ashore. Major Noguchi had confirmed that the reports said the Americans’ arrival wouldn’t be long now.

Ikeda would welcome that day. This hill was ready. He and his men were ready. With any luck, Ikeda might even be able to settle the score with the American sniper who had taken part in the raid.