Pacific Sniper

Chapter Three

The weeks leading up to the landing had been the quiet before the storm for the thousands of Japanese troops ordered to defend Guam to the last man. For weeks on the island, the Japanese had been digging in, awaiting the American attack.

The sea had remained empty, but for how long?

They had hoped that their own fleet would crush the Americans in the Philippine Sea and prevent them from reaching Guam, but they had not even seen a glimpse of a Japanese ship for several days. Long before the American fleet came into sight, supplies had begun to run low.

“When will the enemy be here, sir?” wondered Private Kimura, a young soldier assigned to Captain Mitsuyuki Okubo. The two of them were making their way through the crews of soldiers laboring to build defenses, with Okubo noting the best places to position snipers.

He knew that one well-placed sniper could delay an entire company — he had seen it on Guadalcanal, and he planned to repeat the strategy here.

It was a measure of the situation that the private was more fearful of the Americans than of asking the intimidating captain questions.

“Do not worry about them surprising us,” Okubo said. “They will let us know when they are here. You can be sure of that.”

“Will we win the battle, sir?”

Okubo frowned. He glared at the skinny, tired-looking private. He did not like to hear soldiers express doubt. Doubt led to defeat. As the great samurai-philosopher Miyamoto Musashi had once written, “No fear, no hesitation, no surprise, no doubt.” These were the elements of victory.

Okubo could have berated the private — even beaten him with impunity if he wished. The rules for treatment of enlisted soldiers were very different in the Japanese military from those in the United States forces. However, other soldiers nearby had paused in their labors to listen for the captain’s answer. Okubo felt that this was an opportunity to instill confidence rather than fear.

“Do you know about the Battle of Takatenjin?” he asked.

“I do not know this battle, sir.” The private looked near panic, as if he must have overlooked some aspect of his military indoctrination.

“This battle took place many years ago, in 1574, to be exact. It was the time of the samurai and shoguns. My ancestors were samurai serving a small shogunate known for its excellence in warfare when they were attacked by a much larger force. They held their ground and fought with honor, never doubting that they would be victorious. In the end, the enemy forces withdrew to lick their wounds, having underestimated the small but superior force. We are going to fight the Battle of Takatenjin all over again. Soon, we will all fight together as samurai.”

Kimura and the other soldiers seemed to stand a little straighter. If Okubo was feared, he was also respected. Captain Okubo had just compared them to samurai. They might be tired, dirty, and hungry, but they felt proud to be the defenders of this island. Besides, they all knew that Captain Okubo, descendant of an ancient family, was as close to a living, breathing samurai as they could expect.

Kimura raised a hand against the sun’s glare and stared out to sea, as if he could glimpse the American fleet that must surely be on its way. Just the day before, enemy planes had once again attacked the airfield on the level portion of the island. Aircraft on the ground had been destroyed, and craters had been punched in the concrete. Japanese planes had finally driven off the enemy, and crews of Korean and Chamorro slaves now worked to fill the holes so that the airfield would be serviceable again.

Not lost on Okubo was the irony that the Americans were trying to destroy the airfield that their own engineers had so laboriously built on this remote island that they, many years before, had received as one of the fruits of victory in the Spanish-American War. Just after the victory at Pearl Harbor, Imperial Japanese forces had invaded Guam and overwhelmed the small detachment of US Marines.

Since then, the island and its precious airfield had been in Japanese hands, enabling their fighters and bombers to reach deep into the Pacific. By early 1942, using their network of islands to extend their reach, the Japanese commanded more than 20 percent of the planet’s surface, extending all the way from occupied China to the Aleutian Islands on the Americans’ doorstep. Some had thought that it was not enough and had urged the invasion of Australia or even of the West Coast of the United States.

But those ambitions had faded as the tide of battle had slowly turned against Japan.

Now it seemed that the Americans wanted the island back. But to do that, they first seemed intent upon wrecking it. With their seemingly endless resources, the Americans did not doubt that they could build back whatever they destroyed, denying the enemy use of the airfield in the process. Okubo was not sure if this strategy smacked of wisdom or arrogance.

His story about the long-ago samurai battle finished, the soldiers who had been listening bent back to their work, digging tank traps and other obstacles to impede the invasion force. Okubo moved on, with Private Kimura trailing at a respectful distance from the stern officer.

In a sense, Okubo believed himself to be one of the Emperor’s new samurai, carrying on the traditions of those fabled warriors. After all, Okubo came from a family that had descended from these samurai. Okubo even looked the part. He was tall for a Japanese, or even for an American, close to six feet with a muscular build under his rather corpulent frame, which made him physically intimidating to other Japanese, who tended to be much smaller and slighter.

His grandfather had even been a viscount in the Meiji era. These titles had been reserved for the oldest and most distinguished families within the Japanese aristocracy, known as the Kazoku. Although the title had passed down through the line of eldest sons that did not include Okubo’s own father, his family name was one that was well respected, his heritage unquestioned.

With their roots in the samurai tradition, ancient families such as Okubo’s had won their lands and titles through an adherence to the harsh warrior code known as Bushido.

Instead of a samurai sword or katana, which Japanese officers carried as a badge of office, Okubo carried an excellent Arisaka rifle with a telescopic sight. The rifle stock was customized for his slightly larger frame, and unlike most military rifles, it did not bear the royal chrysanthemum symbol that marked it as property of the Emperor. This was because the custom rifle had been purchased by Okubo, similar to how officers provided their own swords.

Many samurai in ancient times had been renowned archers rather than swordsmen, and in his youth, Okubo had been an accomplished archer. Okubo considered the rifle to be his modern version of the bow. Time and again, he had proved his skill with this rifle. At Guadalcanal, for example, he had lost count of the enemy soldiers he had killed, striking terror into the invaders’ hearts. He had been lucky to narrowly escape during the rescue mission carried out by the Imperial Japanese Navy.

Okubo did not see Guadalcanal as a defeat but as a strategic withdrawal. Of what use was a warrior if he could not continue the fight? Meanwhile, he had helped make the Americans pay dearly for their victory.

As an officer, he had been tasked with training others in the art of marksmanship. Other officers grumbled that Okubo had no real command responsibilities, but with his family name and connections, the truth was that he could do as he pleased.

“Keep up, Private Kimura.”

“Hai!”

Behind him, he heard Kimura’s feet scrambling over rocks. Kimura was essentially his kosho, a soldier-servant who carried his gear and performed menial tasks. Although it kept Private Kimura out of the regular line of battle and from digging tank traps, it was a dangerous assignment. On Guadalcanal, Okubo had lost two such men, one to a burst of machine-gun fire. The other had been shot through the head by an American sniper, a bullet that had surely been meant for Okubo.

The two who had given their lives for Okubo and Japan had been good men and very capable. He suspected that Kimura was something of a screwup whom someone had been glad to get rid of by assigning him to Okubo.

He could have given the private his rifle to carry as the day grew warm, but he resisted the urge, because a samurai did not trust his weapons to the care of others.

One quality that Kimura possessed was good eyesight, which matched Okubo’s own eagle eyes. In that regard, they made a good pair.

Kimura pointed out to sea. “Captain, the enemy planes are returning!”

Okubo looked to where Kimura was pointing. He could just see the glint of sunlight on distant wings. Perhaps the young man’s eyes were sharper, after all.

“We must get to shelter. Hurry!”

With Okubo leading the way, they raced toward an outcropping that was being turned into a pillbox. But as fast as they ran, the enemy planes were faster, sweeping in low, almost touching the surface of the sea as they began their bombing run.

One of the American planes exploded, knocked out of the sky by the rapid fire of the Japanese antiaircraft guns guarding the airfield.

But the guns were not enough to stop the air attack. Machine-gun fire raked the airfield, scattering the men working to repair it. The Americans likely thought that they were shooting down Japanese soldiers, but almost all of those working to repair the airfield were Koreans or the Chamorro natives of Guam, who had been forced into slave labor. Bodies already dotted the tarmac before the first bombs fell.

Okubo dived into the shelter of the pillbox, Kimura right behind him, just as the first hot blast covered the ground.

“Get down, you fool!” Okubo shouted, dragging Kimura deeper into the pillbox.

A burst of machine-gun fire churned the ground like an invisible plow, not more than ten feet away. The noise of the antiaircraft guns and exploding bombs was deafening. Okubo’s ears rang, and dirt and debris rained down. The smell of cordite filled the air.

Pandemonium reigned across the airfield. Not only were the Americans targeting the concrete airfield itself, but they were also going after the aircraft on the ground. Hit by machine-gun fire, a plane exploded into a fireball.

Several pilots ran toward their planes, evidently hoping to get into the air. But first they had to run a gauntlet of fire. A burst caught one man, spun him around, and sent him to the ground.

With relief, Okubo saw that the attack had not taken the Japanese completely by surprise. There had been some warning, so that a good number of planes had gotten into the air with minutes to spare. Now those planes swooped in out of the sun to counterattack the Americans. The result was a spectacular dogfight in the skies over Guam.

A Zero dived toward the field, guns hammering, and flames erupted from an American fighter plane. It was a welcome sight, showing that the American planes were not so invincible, after all. The American plane crashed into a distant hillside. On the ground, Japanese soldiers cheered.

Beside him, Okubo heard Kimura gasp. “Sōdai,” muttered the private, using the Japanese word for magnificent.

Okubo had to agree. If he had not been a marksman, he often thought that he would have been a pilot. What was a plane but a flying sword to cut down the enemy?

There was not much that they could do to help the fight, but Okubo had an idea, now that the attacking planes had shifted their focus from the ground to the air. “Follow me,” he said.

“Hai,” Kimura said, without a great deal of enthusiasm.

Okubo left the pillbox and ran toward the flight control tower. By some miracle, it had survived this latest attack, although the rough wooden structure was only a replacement for the tower that had been destroyed days before.

They encountered a wild-eyed officer hurriedly climbing down from the tower. He looked on in disbelief as Okubo slung his rifle across his back and began to climb up.

“What are you doing?” the officer asked.

“I am fighting back,” Okubo replied. “Where are you going? You will return to your post.”

The other officer hesitated, seeming to debate whether he should listen to this madman, then nodded and took hold of the ladder.

Letting the officer get a head start, Okubo then moved up the wooden rungs. He looked back at Kimura, who appeared almost as terrified as the officer who had been fleeing the tower. “Private Kimura, follow me.”

Kimura gulped. “Hai!”

Okubo ascended the rungs of the ladder. The previous tower had used steps, but there hadn’t been time to replace those. He had to admit, he was breathing heavily by the time he reached the top of the tower. The flight control officer had stopped on the next level down and operated a machine gun intended for the tower’s defense.

From this height, Okubo had a clear view of the airfield. Falling bombs had left new craters in the concrete. Several aircraft burned on the ground. Sadly, he knew that these were aircraft that could not be replaced. The Japanese did not make use of mass production, although they had a vast industrial complex. Each aircraft motor was essentially assembled by a single mechanic; a similar method of craftsmanship was used to assemble the wings and fuselage. In normal times, this method ensured a quality product.

But the war demanded more and more planes. No matter how hard and fast the factory workers labored, they could not hope to meet the output of American mass production, where creating an aircraft was broken down into a series of steps, each worker focusing on a single basic task. There was precious little craftsmanship to be found, but there was tremendous output. He was seeing the result now in the skies over Guam, in wave after wave of American planes.

Okubo raised his rifle. He knew that there was little damage that a single bullet could do. Even hitting an enemy plane was next to impossible. But this was an act of defiance against the enemy.

He picked out his target. The planes sweeping over the field on their strafing runs were moving much too fast. Instead, he spotted a fighter plane flying right at them.

Perhaps the enemy pilot had spotted him as well. He saw the bursts of fire from the wing-mounted guns, and a stream of fire poured into the tower. Beneath them, they heard the officer that Okubo had shamed into climbing the tower scream. He glanced down and saw the man’s body hanging limply.

He returned his eye to the riflescope. With the plane traveling so fast, he knew that he would get a chance at just one shot. The gunfire from the plane continued to tear up the tower, reducing some of the support posts to splinters. It would be a wonder if the tower remained standing.

He felt the platform sway beneath his feet as the entire tower began to cant toward the east, in danger of collapsing. More machine-gun fire gnawed at the structure, but the pilot couldn’t seem to bring up the nose of the plane enough to level the guns at Okubo.

“Captain Okubo!” Private Kimura cried out in dismay, but Okubo ignored him, keeping his focus on the target.

The plane was so close that Okubo could see the pilot inside the glass canopy. Keeping the crosshairs on the target, he squeezed the trigger.

Then he dived, pulling Kimura down with him as the plane swept past them, the wing seeming to cut the air where their heads had been a moment before.

Slowly, he got back to his feet. The tower rolled like a ship at sea. To Okubo’s astonishment, he saw the plane veer to the left and begin to roll, going belly-up before crashing into the base of Mount Alifan, a promontory that rose more than a thousand feet above the otherwise level peninsula.

“You got him!” Private Kimura shouted. “You shot down the plane!”

“So it seems.” It had been a one in a million shot, Okubo thought. He allowed himself a moment to stare in amazement at the flaming wreckage.

Fresh movement beneath his feet reminded him of their predicament. The tower might give way at any moment. He gave Private Kimura a shove toward the ladder. “Iku! Iku! Go! Go!”

The private did not need to be told twice. He started down the ladder with Okubo right behind him. They passed the bloody remains of the flight control officer, draped over a beam. All around them, the swaying tower creaked and groaned.

In the race down, the tower won. Private Kimura let go of the ladder and dropped the last several feet to the ground, and Okubo followed suit, rolling as he hit the ground and doing his best to protect the rifle. Behind them, the tower lurched away and collapsed with a mighty crash. If they had tried to hold on, they would have been crushed.

But the danger was not over. The airfield was still under attack. More bombs fell, and yet more planes strafed anything that moved.

Okubo raced back toward the shelter of the pillbox where they had hidden themselves earlier. On the way, he saw a pilot, badly wounded, dragging himself along the ground. Evidently the man had been running for his plane but hadn’t made it, caught instead by a burst from an enemy aircraft.

“Help me get him to the pillbox,” Okubo ordered Kimura. They both took hold of the pilot and half dragged, half carried him to cover.

“Thank you,” the pilot said gratefully in a weak voice. The pilot’s leather jacket was soaked in blood, and the man’s breathing was ragged. Okubo tugged the jacket open and pulled the man’s shirt away to see if he could somehow stanch the flow of blood, but when he saw the gaping wound, he knew that it was too late for this man. He had seen similar wounds before and knew that the man would suffer and eventually die, but only after hours of agony.

Okubo drew his knife. He did not carry a full-length katana sword like other officers, but he did have a long dagger, known as a tantō. Beautifully made, with a handle decorated with tortoiseshell, it had come down through the family and was very old — and razor-sharp.

“Look at the rising sun,” Okubo said to the pilot. “You have fought with honor.”

When the pilot looked away, Okubo slid the dagger up and under the man’s ribs and into his heart. Okubo’s thrust was quick and efficient, ending the pilot’s suffering. The man shuddered once as the blade drove home, then lay still.

Private Kimura had kept one hand on the pilot’s shoulder; slowly, he let it fall. If he was more than a little astonished at the way in which Okubo had ended the pilot’s life, he managed to keep it to himself.

Beyond the pillbox, the attack seemed to have relented. The American planes were retreating to their aircraft carriers, out of sight beyond the horizon. If the carriers were nearby, then the invasion fleet must be close at hand.

“The Americans have destroyed the airfield,” Private Kimura said, looking around at the destruction. Almost all the planes on the ground were wrecked or burning. The planes that had managed to get into the air would have a hard time landing on the badly damaged airfield. It did not take a general to see that this was a disaster for the Japanese. Without planes, without ships, the island had no protection from the invasion force.

“We will have our revenge,” Okubo said. “They cannot simply drop bombs on us and fly away. Their troops will be coming here, and when they do, they will pay a price in blood.”

“Just like the Battle of Takatenjin, sir.”

Okubo nodded, pleased. Perhaps there was hope yet for Kimura as a soldier. “Ah, you really were listening to my story! Yes, Private Kimura. Just as my ancestors did at the Battle of Takatenjin, we will make the invaders pay dearly.”

Now, listening to the big naval guns pound the island, he knew that day had finally come.