Pacific Sniper

Chapter Twelve

Deke ran to a foxhole that was closer to where he thought the enemy sniper must be hiding. Philly followed. If they were going to take on a sniper, they needed cover. The foxhole was empty in the sense that a GI lay dead in the bottom of it, along with a dead Japanese soldier. The two lay entwined, almost like brothers, their faces serene.

Before he jumped into the foxhole, he noticed that Private Shimizu stood nearby, frozen in place, not seeming to know what to do. That dumb kid doesn’t even have a rifle, Deke thought. Don’t he know that he’s in the middle of a battle? He’s a sitting duck.

More troubling was the fact that aside from the uniform, Private Shimizu’s features were distinctly Japanese. How long would it be before a confused GI mistook Shimizu for one of the enemy? That was if a Japanese soldier didn’t find him first. Private Shimizu was in a double-jeopardy situation.

Deke grabbed the Nisei interpreter by the shoulder and shoved him toward the foxhole. “Get in!”

“What?”

“You heard me. Go on and get in there unless you want somebody to mistake you for one of these Nip bastards and shove a bayonet in your guts.”

That was all the explanation that Shimizu needed. He jumped into the foxhole just ahead of Deke but recoiled at the sight of the dead bodies.

“Keep your head down unless you want to join ’em,” Philly said. “We’ve got a sniper working us over.”

Deke pressed a pair of binoculars into Shimizu’s shaking hands. “Here, make yourself useful. See if you can spot where he’s shooting from.”

Shimizu nodded and started to stand up, binoculars pressed to his eyes. Philly grabbed him by the back of the belt and dragged him down. “What the hell? Stay down!”

“Sorry.”

“You are one dumb green bean, you know that? Besides, if you get nailed by that sniper and these binoculars get shot up, they’re gonna be hard to replace.”

Deke peered above the rim of the foxhole and scanned the landscape before them. The daylight was growing stronger now, dispelling the shadows and giving detail to the strewn boulders, shrubs, and even the jungle beyond. Truth be told, a sniper could be hidden anywhere. Japanese troops had finally stopped storming out of the jungle. A great many bodies lay scattered as far as Deke could see — perhaps hundreds of dead Japanese, cut down by the relentless machine-gun fire. He was a little awed by the sight. So many dead. But not all the prone bodies belonged to the dead. A few wounded enemy soldiers crawled through the grass on their hands and knees.

There weren’t any medics to treat these injured men — to be wounded was to be left behind and abandoned. Deke didn’t know the language, but it was clear that some cried out in agony, while many of the wounded still crawled forward, unwilling to abandon the attack. He noticed that there were no stragglers or even any wounded soldiers who had turned back. The Japanese seemed single-minded in their purpose of destroying the American position. For them, there was no retreat. The only way was forward to victory — or eternity.

Yet the sniper was still at work, unseen. In their short time on the island, the Americans had quickly discovered just how effective the Japanese were at deploying snipers. The enemy marksmen certainly took their toll, but they were a psychological weapon as well, operating in areas that the Americans thought were secure.

“I hate these damn Jap snipers,” more than one GI or marine had stated. “They’ll shoot a guy while he’s lighting a cigarette or taking a leak. Doesn’t seem right.”

Nobody wanted to die needlessly, killed by an unseen foe. It was hard to declare victory when you had to keep looking over your shoulder for a sniper.

“He’s still at work, all right,” Philly said, nodding toward a scene nearby, where a sergeant shouted for a medic after a radioman had been hit seemingly out of nowhere. The sniper had just proved the point that carrying a radio was hazardous duty — these men were always among the first to be targeted, right after officers.

“Son of a bitch,” Deke remarked, eye tight against his riflescope as he scanned the battlefield. He could see plenty of dead and wounded Japanese in the deep grass, but none of them appeared to be the sniper. “I don’t see him.”

Private Shimizu stayed quiet. He hunkered down at the rim of the foxhole, busy moving the binoculars over the landscape.

It was almost impossible to distinguish individual rifle shots. They were lost among the din of grenades and mortars going off, or the chatter of machine-gun fire. The fact that the Arisaka rifle was a soft shooter made it a stealthy sniper weapon. The Japanese sniper took full advantage of the situation. Another soldier fell — this time the sergeant who had been standing beside the radioman. The enemy sniper was nothing if not methodical.

Philly got called away by Lieutenant Steele, leaving Deke alone with the interpreter. He reckoned the interpreter would be about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.

But Shimizu got lucky. Behind the binoculars, he was sharp-eyed and attentive. In the wreckage of a Japanese tank off to their left, he saw a flicker of movement, followed by the bright stab of a muzzle flash.

“The sniper is in the tank,” he said.

“Makes sense,” Deke muttered. He had scanned the tank earlier but hadn’t seen any movement. “Where?”

“There is a slight gap there, by the turret.”

Deke returned his sights to the wrecked tank he had noticed earlier, the details of the twisted and blasted hunk of metal quickly springing closer. He quickly scanned the surrounding area and saw a pile of boulders, more grass — but not snipers. He turned his attention back to the tank.

The wreckage would offer excellent cover for a sniper, but it would also be something of a death trap once you were discovered. Toss in a grenade, and that would be that for the sniper. But they were too far away for grenades. They would have to rely on bullets.

Through the scope, Deke stared into the dark maw of the tank. It looked as if someone had taken a giant can opener to it. Black scorch marks covered the edges of the metal.

Finally, he saw a stab of flame. The sniper.

Deke took his time. All his focus was on making a good shot. There wasn’t a soldier who was any good with a rifle who didn’t understand that need. If there was anything that Deke Cole desired in this world, it was to pull the trigger and hear the satisfying whunk of a bullet hitting the target. You could play all the jazz and bluegrass you wanted, but Deke knew the sound of that bullet hitting home was the only music he needed.

Deke squeezed the trigger and fired at where he had seen the enemy’s muzzle flash.

“I think you got him,” the interpreter said.

“Nice work,” Deke said, looking over at the interpreter. “I wouldn’t have spotted him without you. What’s your name again?”

“Shimizu.”

“Shim — what now?”

The interpreter pronounced it more slowly for Deke’s benefit. “Shi-mi-zu.”

“I got to say, that’s a mouthful.”

“How about Yoshio? That’s my first name.”

“Yoshio, huh? That’s got a better ring to it. Yoshio, welcome to the sniper squad.”

“I thought I was already in the squad?”

“That was what we call a trial period. Now it’s official-like.”

Yoshio shook his head. “Whatever you say, Deke.”

“Whatever I say, huh?” Deke grinned. “I can tell that you and me are gonna get along just fine.”

As it turned out, their celebration over nailing the Jap sniper was premature. A few feet away, a runner was going by, carrying a message between foxholes. The man suddenly threw up his arms and went limp as a rag doll before toppling to the ground.

Yoshio had been watching the tank through the binoculars. The sun wasn’t completely up yet, so that much of the ground before them still lay in shadow. With their wider field of view, the binoculars also brought the area surrounding the tank into sharper focus. Out of the corner of his eye, Yoshio saw another muzzle flash — but not from the tank this time.

“There’s another sniper,” he exclaimed. “He’s in that pile of boulders!”

Deke turned his attention to the boulders. Like most of the big rocks here, they were dark gray, nearly black, and porous. Volcanic, one of the officers had called them. But the boulders were plenty thick enough to stop a bullet. Like the tank, they made a perfect hiding place for a sniper.

Deke watched through the scope, waiting for the sniper to show himself or for the muzzle flash to give him away. Where was that Nip son of a bitch?

Then Yoshio yelped as a bullet struck the rim of the foxhole, showering him with bits of coral and dirt. He dropped the binoculars into the bottom of the foxhole, on top of one of the dead bodies.

Deke was sure that the bullet had come from the sniper hidden among the boulders. However, he was not sure exactly where the sniper was located. He also realized that the enemy sniper must have spotted them and targeted them. Deke himself was well hidden, but Yoshio had been more exposed and showing more of himself above the foxhole than he should have. But instead of feeling afraid, Deke grinned. Two can play at that game, you sly Nip bastard.

“You all right?” he whispered to Yoshio, as if the enemy sniper could hear him.

Yoshio touched his cheek, where a chip of stone had drawn blood. He was shaken but otherwise uninjured. He was certainly a lot better off than the two dead men in the belly of the foxhole. “I am fine,” he replied, though his voice sounded shaky.

“Good. I reckon I’d hate for you to be dead, just having gotten to know you and all. Besides, you’re the only Japanese friend I’ve got.”

“Gee whiz, thank you.”

“Listen, here’s what I want you to do. Take the helmet off that dead fella there and stick it over the rim of the foxhole.”

“You want me to do what, exactly?”

“We’ve got to lure out that sniper. You got any better ideas?”

Reluctantly, Yoshio crouched down toward the dead GI. The man’s eyes stared as if accusing him of something as he slipped off the chin strap and tugged the helmet free. “Got it,” he said, and crept toward the edge of the foxhole.

“And Yoshio?”

“Yes?”

“Keep your head down.”

Deke held his breath as Yoshio got into position, his eye pressed tight to the scope, finger tense on the trigger. He reckoned that he would get one chance at this. One shot.

“Ready?” Yoshio asked.

Deke grunted.

Beside him, he heard Yoshio take a deep breath, and then the sound of the metal helmet grating across the debris at the rim of the foxhole. His eye didn’t waver from the rifle sight.

There. He spotted a dim muzzle flash. At the same instant, Deke heard Yoshio cry out as the sniper’s bullet struck the helmet and snatched it away.

Deke fired.

It was impossible to tell if he had hit the enemy sniper, who was clearly burrowed down in those rocks. They seemed to offer much better protection than the tank had, because he didn’t have any real glimpse of the sniper.

Then came another muzzle flash, and a bullet snapped the air just past his ear. He felt his body shudder involuntarily. Damn, but that was close.

He fired again at the spot where he had seen the muzzle flash.

Another bullet flicked past his ear.

He knew where the sniper was, and the sniper knew where Deke was, but neither of them could seem to get a clear shot at the other. They were at an impasse.

“Did you get him?” Yoshio asked.

“I don’t rightly know. Like I said, keep your head down.”

He heard Yoshio settle deeper into the foxhole but didn’t dare take his eye from the rifle sight. Where was that sniper?

Then a curious thing happened. From the boulders, a hand appeared, as if raised in greeting.

Deke held his fire. What the hell? Was that Nip about to surrender?

Slowly, a figure emerged from the volcanic boulders. The Japanese sniper held a rifle at the ready, but for the moment it was not aimed at Deke. He saw a man who appeared older — and taller — than many of the Japanese he had seen. Curiously, the man was not wearing a helmet. Instead, a bright-white scarf was tied around his head, decorated with some kind of badge.

Unable to resist his curiosity, Yoshio had retrieved the binoculars and retaken his position at the rim of the foxhole. Deke heard him inhale sharply and mutter, “Samurai. He wears the archer symbol.”

“For real?” Deke had heard the term samurai but hadn’t thought that they would run into one on the battlefield.

“He looks real to me.”

“Ask him if he wants to surrender. If he doesn’t, I’m gonna shoot his ass in about two seconds.”

“He can’t hear me from here!”

“Shout real loud.”

“The other guys were right. That freakin’ Deacon. If it makes you happy, I’ll tell him to surrender,” Yoshio said. He took a deep breath, raised himself higher, and shouted in Japanese, “Kōfuku!”

It was hard to say if the enemy sniper had heard him. The man didn’t move but stood like a stone.

“Aw, to hell with it,” Deke said, and stood up. He couldn’t say why, but as he did so, he put his bush hat back on. Like the Japanese sniper, he kept his rifle to his shoulder but didn’t entirely raise it to point at the other man.

The two of them regarded each other across no-man’s-land.

The Japanese sniper nodded at him, then slowly sank back into the jumble of rocks. Deke slumped back down into the foxhole. “Ain’t that the craziest thing. What the hell was that about?”

“He was wearing a samurai headband,” Yoshio said. “He must regard himself as a warrior. I think he was giving you a sign of respect.”

“I think what he wants to give me is a big fat bullet, right through my head.”

“You may be right about that,” Yoshio agreed.

“Now what?” Deke wondered aloud. “I guess we go back to trying to kill each other.”

As it turned out, he didn’t have a chance to find out. They heard a rumbling from the jungle, sounding almost like distant thunder, although the morning was clear and bright. Then came the sound of something smashing its way through the vegetation.

Moments later, a line of mustard-color machines burst from the cover of the jungle.

“Tanks!” Yoshio shouted in surprise.

Another group of Japanese foot soldiers appeared in the wake of the tanks, screaming the now-familiar battle cry, “Banzai!”