Pacific Sniper

Chapter Ten

As the squad moved into place to join the rest of the soldiers on the front line, the Japanese were also maneuvering out of sight.

With nightfall on the second day of the landing, the Japanese prepared for an all-out attack to push the Americans back into the sea. They had probed the enemy’s strength and resolve in a series of smaller attacks and kept them hemmed in near the beachhead with a vigorous defense that had left the American forces spread thin. The marines held a solid position a short distance inland, with the army soldiers also well-positioned just to the south.

The army and marine forces acted independently and cooperated — to a point. It seemed that neither the army nor the marines had committed troops to protect the center of the American position.

General Takashina understood the failures of interservice communication well enough, having experienced the difficulties of getting the Japanese Army and Navy to work together.

In any case, the probing attacks and nighttime sorties had revealed that the US forces were spread thin in the middle, like an overstretched rubber band.

This was where General Takashina saw his opportunity. As the overall commander of more than eighteen thousand Japanese troops on Guam, he was not lacking for military strength — on paper, at least. The general was well aware that his troops lacked ammunition and, perhaps more important, food and medical supplies. With the island hemmed in by the US fleet there would be no hope of resupply or evacuation. He and the other Japanese troops had their backs to the wall. They were on their own. If they did not manage to overwhelm the Americans in the attack tonight, then there would be little hope of retaking the island — or of survival.

As a man of few words, General Takashina did not share his opinions with subordinates, but he was getting desperate.

Born in 1891, he was getting long in the tooth to be a field commander. But at age fifty-three, he did not lack fire and still appeared to be a man in his prime. Solidly built and with his face set in a perpetual frown, the officers under his command always hurried to carry out his orders. Takashina did not suffer fools or malingerers.

His plan was exceedingly simple. He would throw everything he had at the weak middle. After his troops had broken through, they could wipe out the staging areas on the beach and attack the Americans from behind, prompting confusion. It was a strategy favored time and again across the Pacific by desperate, uncreative Japanese commanders, who seemed to believe that the Americans would crumble in the face of a determined attack.

“Remember this,” General Takashina told his officers. “Victory belongs to the bold and the swift!”

He outlined his plan to attack in force at dawn. For the general, a dawn attack carried special significance, considering that the symbol of Imperial Japan was itself a rising sun.

Then Takashina unsheathed his sword and raised it high, shouting in a booming voice, “Banzai!”

His officers responded in unison. “Banzai!”

Some of the men looked uneasy. They knew well enough that a banzai charge was a desperate gamble that would either crush the enemy and sweep them back into the sea — or spell doom for the Japanese.

And yet the word brought looks of joy to some of their faces. These officers and their men were ready to fight. Soon they would be shouting that battle cry as they drove the American barbarians before them.

Okubo was among the officers who had gathered for the briefing with General Takashina. Okubo respected Takashina and thought that the planned banzai charge might prove to be an effective tactic. After all, it was what a true samurai would do — face the enemy head-on, without fear.

“The Americans are weak and undisciplined,” he explained to Private Kimura, who had been waiting outside the bunker, holding Okubo’s rifle.

“Hai,” Kimura agreed, falling into step half a pace behind him, out of respect for Okubo’s rank. Kimura and the other enlisted men waiting outside the bunker had exchanged anxious glances, although they knew better than to speculate out loud. Something big was up.

“Our forces will crush them with a single blow and send them back into the sea.”

Kimura liked the sound of that, but what did it mean for him? “We will join the charge at dawn, sir?”

“No,” Okubo said. “I have other plans for us. Gather some food and water — whatever you can find. We are going to get into position early and support the attack. I will eliminate any machine gunners that I can to help make the attack a success.”

Having sent Kimura on his way, Okubo watched him go with satisfaction. He was pleased so far with this soldier, who did what he was told and asked just enough questions to show that he had some spark. I must not grow too fond of him, Okubo reminded himself. He is expendable — as are we all. Serving with Okubo had proved dangerous — on Guadalcanal, no fewer than two men had died serving as his kosho. This was not a military term but the traditional title of a samurai’s official assistant, similar to how a Western knight was served by a page.

While returning to his quarters, Okubo passed a group of soldiers who were loitering. Their uniforms looked slovenly, and they were joking with each other. Thinking of the task that awaited them all in a few hours, he stopped and glared at the men.

“Do you have nothing better to do?” he demanded. He reached for one of the soldier’s rifles, grabbing it from the man’s grasp. “Look at this weapon! It is a disgrace!”

Enraged now, Okubo struck the soldier’s face a stinging blow with his open hand. Many of the Japanese officers had been incredulous when General Patton had been reprimanded for slapping a shell-shocked soldier in France. The incident had been much publicized in Japan as a sign of American weakness.

Having been struck by Okubo, the Japanese soldier knew better than to react in any way but saying, “Yes, sir!”

Okubo jabbed a finger at the chrysanthemum symbol stamped onto the receiver of the rifle. “Do you not see the Emperor’s mark? This rifle belongs to the Emperor, and you will show it respect. Go clean it immediately! That goes for the rest of you as well!”

The men had snapped to attention when Okubo stopped, and now they scrambled to do as he ordered. It did not matter if Okubo was their direct superior or not. An officer could do what he pleased to an enlisted man without consequence. He could shoot a man who shirked his duty. Lately, more than a few would-be deserters who had tried unsuccessfully to slip away into the jungle had been summarily beheaded. The swords that the officers carried were for more than show.

Okubo reached his quarters, a simple tent erected within a quick sprint of a dugout that offered protection from bombardment and aerial attack.

He glanced at his Seiko wristwatch. There was much to do to prepare for the morning, and very little time.

Quickly, he stashed his sword in his chest. He would have no need of it in the morning and had brought it to the staff meeting only as a badge of office. He replaced it with the much smaller and useful knife that he slipped into his belt. He admired the two blades side by side. The weapons had been passed down through the family, once owned by his great-grandfather, who had been an actual samurai.

The weapons formed a pair, forged together more than a century ago from steel that had been folded back into itself more than a thousand times. Okubo felt confident that nothing on earth could break that steel — certainly not another sword, although the days of sword battles were long since over.

From his chest, he removed another treasured item. This was a hachimaki, or headband, bright white, decorated in the front with a symbolic kanji that represented an archer, the nine strokes of the Japanese symbol being reminiscent of a drawn bow. Okubo tied the hachimaki around his head.

In keeping with modern times, his weapon was a rifle rather than a bow, but the symbolism remained — an archer was deadly even at a great distance, and many legendary samurai had been famed as archers.

There was a noise at the tent flap and Okubo looked up. Kimura had returned. He juggled an armload of supplies — rice, water, and even a small bottle of sake. He had to hand it to Kimura. The young soldier was resourceful.

Okubo laughed. “I hope the general doesn’t know you stole his sake!”

“Sir, a friend owed me a favor. Anyhow, there is a great deal of sake to be had right now.”

It was true that liquor was readily supplied before an attack. The men were encouraged to drink heavily before a banzai charge because it fueled their bravery.

“Don’t worry, I will not ask any questions, Kimura. Gather your things. We are going to leave now to get into position.”

“So early, sir?”

“We must be in position before dawn so that we can take the enemy by surprise. A warrior is always two steps ahead of his enemy.” He reached for the sake and took a satisfying swig of the rice wine, then offered the bottle to Kimura, who looked surprised by the gesture but then also took a drink. “Hurry now, we haven’t much time.”

Moving through the camp, they passed through the sentries and closer to the American lines. Armed with his sniper’s rifle with its telescopic sight, no one thought to question Okubo.

He moved carefully through no-man’s-land, the band of brush-covered territory between his own forces and the enemy’s position. In the darkness, it wasn’t easy going. The grass and low-growing bushes snapped at his feet. Once they entered the jungle grove, he moved as silently as he could, pushing aside the heavy leaves and vines almost blindly. He didn’t dare use a light but had to rely entirely on stealth. Ahead, he could hear the surf on the beach, and he used this as a guide.

Behind him, Kimura made enough noise for both of them.

“You sound like an elephant!” Okubo whispered harshly. “The Americans must not hear us.”

“Hai,” came Kimura’s hushed response. To Okubo’s satisfaction, Kimura seemed to move more quietly after that.

Okubo knew that everything depended on the success of the impending Japanese attack. The Americans were still confined to a relatively narrow beachhead that did not extend more than a half mile into the island. Their forces, made up of marines and soldiers, were spread thin, although they occupied all the high ground between Mount Alifan and Mount Tenjo.

The Japanese still held the area between the Americans and the precious Orote airfield. Trying to hold their position would be a war of attrition that they could not win. Even now, the American ships anchored off the island managed to deliver a constant stream of supplies to the beach, everything from ammunition to food to tanks. The Japanese had no hope of resupply. Those same ships could bombard the Japanese positions at will, their shells able to reach several miles into the island interior. Then again, around the airfield the Japanese had a strong defensive perimeter that consisted of connected pillboxes, dugouts, and trenches. Artillery and air bombardment were not enough. The Americans would have to fight their way to the airfield one step at a time.

From the air, the Japanese faced constant harassment from strafing and bombing whenever they showed themselves by day. This was an important reason why they were mostly operating now by night. The American planes generally did not fly missions by night, if for no other reason than that they feared attacking their own troops by mistake.

It almost seemed like a waste of effort, this striving for an airfield on a jungle island. However, Okubo knew that the stakes were high. Each airfield that the Americans seized was like a stepping-stone that brought them that much closer to Japan itself. The airfield also had strategic value for naval battles. Just last month, Japanese planes had used the Orote field to attack the American fleet during the Battle of the Philippine Sea. More than one hundred Zero planes and a dozen Gekkō night fighters had been based there. Those planes had not been enough, and the Japanese fleet had been defeated, leaving Guam open to invasion. Now all those planes were gone, either destroyed on the ground or shot out of the sky.

For this strip of concrete in the vast Pacific, thousands of men would die.

Okubo pushed these thoughts of strategy from his mind and focused on the task at hand. He would do his part to help make the attack a success.

He froze. Kimura walked right into him, and Okubo heard him open his mouth to utter an apology, but he reached out to grip his arm and silence him.

Not more than one hundred feet away, he had seen a momentary flash of muted light. Someone had lit a match or flicked a lighter, and then like a firefly, the light was gone.

They had reached the American defenses.

Moving parallel to where he thought the line of foxholes was located, Okubo barely dared to breathe. Each step might give them away.

In fact, they were much closer than was prudent. If he hadn’t spotted that light, they very well might have walked right into the American lines.

The jungle had mostly given way, and the ground was more broken by coral boulders and even fallen trees. All that he needed to do was find the right spot.

He required a good position where he could set up his sniper’s nest. The easiest course of action would have been to climb a tree. From above, he could have picked off anyone in the foxholes. However, once daylight arrived, he might be an easy target.

Some snipers did not care about that. They had been taught that their lives were expendable. But Okubo considered himself to be a samurai. He believed in the Bushido code of honor. A samurai did not throw his life away but lived to fight again.

Finally, he nearly bumped into the wreckage of a Japanese tank. Though fierce fighters and extremely damaging to infantry, the light Japanese tanks were no match for the more heavily armed Sherman tanks or threats from the air. This tank and crew had paid the price. Okubo could smell burned metal, spilled fuel, and the stink of putrefying flesh in the tropical heat. Perhaps the crew had been trapped inside and were rotting like a tin of bad sardines.

“Private Kimura, you will take your rifle and fire on the Americans when I give the order.”

“From where, sir?”

“From inside the tank.”

Kimura wrinkled his nose. “There are dead men in there, sir.”

“They will not ask any questions.”

“Hai,” Kimura said without much enthusiasm.

Leaving Kimura at the tank, Okubo walked a short distance away to a pile of coral boulders. He worked his way down among them, squirming in like a badger.

When dawn came, he would have a clear field of fire. If the enemy noticed the sniper fire, then the wrecked tank would be an obvious target. Private Kimura would certainly draw their attention with his inept shooting. Meanwhile, Okubo would continue to slay the Americans, unseen.

With everything in place, Okubo settled down to wait. He must be patient. General Takashina’s attack would come soon enough.

He was the samurai sniper, and they were nothing more than the gaijin that he would slay.