Pacific Sniper

Chapter Five

Deke made his way back to the beach, recrossing the territory that they had fought so hard to gain. In his mind, it seemed as if they had crossed miles and miles of the island terrain. Much to his surprise, the walk back to the beachhead took only a few minutes. The territory held by the Americans wasn’t more than a half mile wide. Was that as far as they had come? He shook his head. All of a sudden, the island that was a speck in the vastness of the Pacific seemed a whole lot bigger, considering how hard-fought every inch of it was turning out to be.

Back at the beach, Deke was amazed at how it had been transformed. Gone were the empty stretches of beach. The sand was now covered with every form of equipment and gear imaginable. He saw jeeps, crates of supplies, even tanks. Beach masters shouted orders and waved frantically as more supplies arrived. What had once been a deserted tropical beach was now a military staging area.

Nearby, a soldier gave a low whistle. “I guess if we can’t bomb the Japs off this island, then we’re just going to bury them in junk.”

“You got that right,” Deke said.

But possession of the beach had come at a price. Dozens of wounded men awaited transport to the hospital ships offshore. Shelters had been erected, but not enough. The sun beat down mercilessly on the exposed wounded, who could do little to help themselves.

Deke saw a wounded man struggling to drink from a canteen and walked over to help him.

“Thanks, buddy,” the soldier said, once he had gulped a few mouthfuls of water. He ran a tongue over cracked, sunburned lips. His torso was heavily bandaged. He explained, “Jap mortar. I was the lucky one. Most of my squad got wiped out.”

“That’s a damn shame.” Deke helped the man take another drink.

“Listen, take my hat, will you? It will just get lost on the ship.” The soldier held out a wide-brimmed hat pinned up on one side. Deke had seen Aussies wearing similar hats. It was what they called a slouch hat.

“You sure?”

“It brought me luck. Otherwise I wouldn’t be here. And it keeps the sun off.”

“All right,” Deke said, accepting the hat, which seemed to please the soldier. “You take care of yourself.”

“Give those Japs hell for me,” the soldier said.

Deke moved on, swapping his helmet for the wide-brimmed hat. The soldier had been right — it was the perfect hat for the tropical sun.

Not far from the wounded men awaiting transport, he passed rows of bodies stretched out on the sand. Some of the bodies lay covered by blankets or scraps of canvas or even palm fronds, perhaps by their buddies, to give them some dignity and privacy in death. But most of the bodies were exposed, faces turned up as if the men might be napping.

Several soldiers in a graves registration detail were doing their best to identify the dead, working their way down the row. Definitely an unpleasant task. A bulldozer worked nearby, digging a long trench that would be the resting place for the dead. It was a grim fact that bodies had to be dealt with quickly in the tropical heat.

Even more distressing to Deke was the sight of a half dozen dead dogs, lined up in the sand. They, too, were awaiting burial. They were all Doberman pinschers, brought ashore to sniff out the enemy and give warning of infiltrators at night. The humans, more or less, had a choice about fighting — or a fighting chance, at least. The dogs didn’t know any better and had been put in harm’s way, which Deke found immeasurably sad. He’d always been fond of dogs.

Nobody had bothered with the Japanese dead. Then again, there didn’t seem to be nearly as many of them as there were dead Americans, Deke thought bitterly.

The Japanese were using a tactic that they had used effectively on other islands. Rather than trying to stop the Americans on the beach, which would have been impossible given the overwhelming firepower of the naval guns, they had left only a token force to “greet” the GIs and marines at the beach. The bulk of the enemy force had been withdrawn deeper into the island. One of the enemy objectives was to defend the Orote airfield on the flatter, more open part of the island. Considering that the American forces had not even pushed that far inland, a large part of the fight still awaited them.

But those were not the only defenses. The northern reaches of Guam rose in steep hills covered in jungle. If they were pushed off the Orote Peninsula, this was where the Japanese forces would make their last stand.

It would be a hell of a thing digging them out of there.

None of that concerned Deke now. He just had to find headquarters.

That turned out to be easy enough. A tarp had been strung up as protection against the tropical sun, the only such structure on the beach. Beneath it, clerks with typewriters were already busy typing up the casualty reports and inventorying supplies. Above the clack of the typewriters, the distant sound of gunfire could still be heard.

“You there,” said a lieutenant who spotted Deke right away. “Are you any good with that rifle, or was somebody just trying to get rid of you because you’re a pain in the ass?”

“Sir?” Deke didn’t understand how the officer had known why he was there, having been able to single him out from the soldiers coming and going.

“Don’t look so surprised, soldier,” the lieutenant said. He seemed to be sizing Deke up. In turn, Deke was struck by the fact that the man looked too old to be a lieutenant. When the man took off his helmet to swipe at his sweaty brow, Deke could see that the man’s hair was shot through with gray. Even more noticeable than his graying hair was the fact that one of the officer’s eyes was bandaged. “Anyhow, you look like you could be a mean son of a bitch, so that’s something.”

Somebody shouted, “Lieutenant!” and the officer’s attention was momentarily diverted.

Curious now, Deke took the opportunity to look more closely at the officer. The man was tall and lean, well over six feet, with a weathered, outdoorsy face. The man’s right eye was bandaged — but it didn’t look like a recent wound.

Then the lieutenant’s attention returned to Deke, and he seemed to notice Deke’s scars for the first time. His good eye narrowed as he took them in. “What’s your name, son?”

“Cole, sir.”

“All right, Cole. Go stand with the others over there. If you’re lucky, there might even be some rusty water left in that drum. It smells bad, and you could maybe use it to run a generator, but it’s all we’ve got. Make sure you fill your canteen. I’ll be over in a minute.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Easy on the sir stuff. If any Japs are listening, that means I’m as good as dead.”

The lieutenant turned away, and Deke walked over to join the group that the lieutenant had pointed at. A handful of men stood near a drum that was indeed filled with rusty water. It also smelled like diesel oil. Deke wrinkled his nose.

“It’s not spring water, that’s for sure,” said one of the men. “As a matter of fact, it’s mostly rust with a splash of oil, but it hasn’t killed us yet.”

As the men coming ashore were quickly finding out, drinking water was a commodity in short supply. In the tropical heat, everybody was constantly thirsty. If there was a decent source of water on the island itself, nobody had found it yet. Rumor had it that the Japs had poisoned all the wells and springs.

Consequently, all water for the thousands of GIs and marines fighting on the island had to be brought in from the ships. Somebody hadn’t done a good job of cleaning out the old fuel barrels used to carry the water to shore. The result was this foul concoction of water, rust, and oil. They were all so thirsty that they didn’t have any choice but to drink it.

Like the others, Deke felt desperately parched. He took a sip, almost gagged, and took another sip. Although his stomach and throat revolted at the taste, the rest of his body craved the water.

It was no wonder — his uniform was soaked through with sweat, just like everybody else’s. He forced down a couple of gulps.

“I guess we’re supposed to be some sort of crack sniper squad,” said the soldier who had assessed the water. He was busily chewing a piece of gum, making popping and snapping sounds between the words. He had an accent that Deke couldn’t place right away. “Can you shoot?”

“Some,” Deke allowed.

“That’s good,” said the soldier with the gum. “Somebody’s got to. I can’t shoot worth a damn.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I volunteered,” he said. “It sounded better to me than getting my ass shot off by the Japs.”

“You do know that we’ll be going back out there, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but for now, here I am on the beach getting sunburned, drinking this delicious water — and not getting shot at.” The soldier was about five foot eight, but he had a beefy build and exuded a confidence that made him seem bigger.

“You got a point there,” Deke said.

“I’m Philly, by the way. That’s short for Phil-a-del-phi-a,” the soldier said, slowly sounding out each syllable as if Deke might not understand the English language. “It’s where I’m from. How about you?”

“Well, I ain’t from Phil-a-del-phi-a.”

“Gee, what a surprise with that hillbilly accent you’ve got. Ever been there?”

“I don’t like cities.”

The soldier frowned. “Oh, I get it. Another hayseed, huh? That’s just great. This army’s full of ’em.” Then he noticed Deke’s scars for the first time, and whatever steam he was building up seemed to dissipate. “What the hell happened to you, anyhow?”

“Keep it up and you’ll find out for yourself.”

“All right, don’t get sore.” Not being one to back down, Philly had wanted to say more, but something in Deke’s eyes convinced him to let it go.

In the welcome silence that followed, Deke finally had a chance to look at the others. Some appeared competent, while the rest seemed more like Philly — looking as though maybe they were in the wrong place.

One by one, the other men introduced themselves. Ingram was a big guy with movie-star looks, and he seemed to know it. There was Rodenbeck, who went by Rodeo. And finally a soldier named Pawelczyk.

The lieutenant came over. Deke was a little confused, because the man was carrying a pump-action combat shotgun. Shouldn’t the officer in charge of a sniper squad have a rifle?

But the lieutenant wasn’t ready to answer their questions just yet. “Come on,” he said, and led them down the beach, away from the busy staging area. Other than a couple of lookouts posted to keep an eye out for Japs, this section of beach was mostly empty. The surf ran up on shore, and a cooling sea breeze broke the tropical heat. In fact, this section of beach hinted at the tropical paradise that Guam might very well have been until 1941, when the Japanese attacked the small marine garrison not long after Pearl Harbor and seized the island. The scene was marred only by the sight of a body bobbing in the waves just offshore.

Once they were assembled, the lieutenant began.

“Congratulations,” he said. “Or maybe I should say, my condolences. You are now part of a designated anti-sniper squad assigned to recon. As you know, the Jap snipers are really tearing us up. The Japs have put a lot of thought into sniper warfare.”

Deke remembered how the Japanese soldier he had killed earlier that day had been so effectively camouflaged. If the man hadn’t moved, Deke wouldn’t have seen him. The United States Army lacked any similar tactics.

“Now how did I get stuck with you misfits? You might be wondering, so I’ll tell you. I’m Lieutenant Steele. Before the war I was a trapshooting pro at a country club, teaching rich people how to shoot clay pigeons.” The lieutenant paused, letting that sink in. Some of the men smirked at the mention of a country club. Trapshooting had been a popular sport all through the 1920s and 1930s, but you needed money to waste shells on clay targets. Growing up, Deke had only enough shells to shoot game for food. “I was also a pretty good shot with a rifle, which came in handy when I was sent to Guadalcanal, where I learned all about the damage that a Jap sniper could do. I also learned how to fight back, rifle to rifle. Just before we kicked the Japs off Guadalcanal for good, I caught a bullet in the face.”

Beside him, Deke saw Philly wince. Even Deke couldn’t help but stare at the bandage covering Lieutenant Steele’s right eye. The wound still appeared to be weeping, the bandage discolored by a yellowish stain that nobody wanted to think much about. The scars on Deke’s face ran deep, but at least he’d kept both eyes.

Lieutenant Steele continued, “Our job is to do what we can to deal with the snipers so that they don’t bog down the advance like they did on Guadal. We’ll either be in advance of the other units, or we’ll stick around to deal with any Jap snipers that get left to the rear. Understood?”

“Yes, sir!”

The lieutenant frowned. “All right, first rule of the game. Nobody calls me lieutenant, or sir. That’s a surefire way to get an officer killed. The Japs have been trained to listen for those words and target the officers. The Japs don’t play fair. Come to think of it, neither did we, back in the Revolutionary War — the sharpshooters always targeted the redcoat officers first. And whatever you do, for God’s sake, don’t salute anybody.”

Philly said, “Then what do we call you?”

“Don’t call me anything, if you don’t have to. Otherwise, call me Honcho. I’ve heard that it’s actually a Jap word, which should confuse the hell out of ’em.”

“You got it, Honcho.” Philly seemed pleased with the notion that he was under orders not to salute anybody.

“Now sound off and tell me who you are. I’ll take nicknames if you’ve got ’em.”

Philly was first in line. “Private Lange, sir.”

“What did I just say about that?”

“Sorry, s—” He caught himself before addressing the officer as “sir” again. “I go by Philly, which is where I’m from.”

“Philly it is, then. Can you shoot, Philly, or are you better at shooting off your mouth?”

“Sure, I can shoot. I’m a crack shot.”

Deke raised his eyebrows. That was not what Philly had told him. Had he sold himself short to Deke, or was he just trying to make himself look good to the officer? It just went to show that you couldn’t trust city slickers.

“We’ll see about that. Now how about you?” the lieutenant asked, looking at the next man.

Deke went last. “Deacon Cole. I reckon I go by Deke to most.”

“I reckon you do. With a name like Deacon, you must be a religious man.”

“I was this morning, waiting to hit the beach.”

“There’s nothing wrong with a good prayer, I’ll give you that. But can you shoot?”

Deke shrugged. “Some.”

“Let’s find out. We’re going to see if anyone here can actually shoot, or if you’re just a bunch of deadwood that somebody was trying to get rid of. All right, then. Deke, we’ll start with you.” The lieutenant pointed toward a coconut tree at the edge of the beach, where a single coconut still clung. Somehow it had survived the naval bombardment earlier. “Let’s see if you can hit that.”

Deke raised his rifle. The open sights blotted out the coconut, which was just a speck at this distance. He didn’t feel at all shaky anymore. The rest on the beach and even the few gulps of the horrible water had done him a world of good.

Holding the rifle steady, Deke let out a breath, breathed in another, and held it, then slowly began to squeeze the trigger.

“Anytime now,” Philly muttered. “You’re lucky that coconut isn’t shooting back.”

“Shut up, Philly,” the lieutenant said. “I suppose that is kind of hard to hit. You can take a knee, if you need to, or even—”

Deke fired, the rifle punching into his shoulder.

High up in the tree, the coconut shattered.

The lieutenant stared at the distant tree, hands on his hips. “Huh. I guess that answers the question about whether you can shoot. Now let’s see how the rest of you do,” the lieutenant said. For a target, the lieutenant pointed out coconuts that had been thrown by the shelling far out onto the beach. Contrasted against the sand, they made good targets. “Philly, you go first.”

Philly approached the firing line with all the swagger of Babe Ruth stepping up to the plate. He made a show of rolling his shoulders, then tested the wind direction by wetting his finger and holding it up — never mind that the sea breeze was clearly blowing directly at him. On the beach, the Pacific wind never seemed to stop blowing.

“Quit screwing around,” the lieutenant said, exasperated.

Philly nodded, then put the rifle to his shoulder. He aimed and squeezed off five rapid shots from the M1. His rate of fire was impressive. Gouts of sand erupted down the beach, indicating where the bullets had struck, but the coconut went unscathed.

“That’s about what I expected,” the lieutenant said.

“Damn thing doesn’t shoot straight,” Philly complained.

The others laughed, except for Deke. The lieutenant just scowled. “Don’t laugh until the rest of you show me what you can do. Ingram, you’re up next.”

Ingram hit the coconut on the second shot, causing it to hop high into the air. Rodeo missed altogether.

The last soldier stepped forward. “Pawelczyk,” he said.

“That’s a mouthful. Polish, huh?”

“That’s why my buddies call me Alphabet.”

“I’ll bet they do. The question is: Alphabet, can you hit the target?”

It took three shots, but his final bullet sent the coconut flying.

“Not bad, Alphabet. I guess we’ll keep you around.”

The men all became so caught up in the shooting match that it was almost possible to forget that they were in the middle of a war, in the middle of the Pacific. Deke couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the jungle just beyond the beach, scanning for any enemy soldiers, unwilling to let his guard down while the others turned their attention to the shooting match.

He noticed the lieutenant doing the same between rounds of the men shooting.

“Ingram, it looks as if you might give Deke here a run for his money,” the lieutenant said.

“What about you, sir? Aren’t we gonna see you shoot?”

“What did I say about that? You want to get me killed?”

“Sorry, sir. Uh, I mean, just sorry.”

The lieutenant hefted his shotgun. “With this bum eye the Japs gave me, I’ll have to stick with a shotgun.” What seemed to be unspoken was something they all knew, which was that the lieutenant’s eye injury should have been his ticket home. A lot of men, especially officers, had managed to get sent home with less severe injuries. Instead, the lieutenant had decided to stay and fight.

The jury was still out on whether that meant he was a brave son of a bitch — or had a death wish.

The lieutenant continued, “Unfortunately, it’s my dominant right eye that’s bad, so I’d have to learn to shoot a rifle all over again. Instead, I’ll have to leave the shooting up to you men, or some of you, at least. Deke, Ingram, and Alphabet will be the designated snipers, while Rodeo, Philly, and me will be the scouts. That’s the eyes and ears of a sniper.”

“You?”

“There’s no room for deadwood in this unit, and that includes me.”

“What about weapons, Honcho?” Ingram asked.

“You’ve all got rifles, in case you haven’t noticed. There is currently no better weapon than the Garand M1.”

“But don’t we get actual sniper rifles? With telescopic sights?”

“I’m working on it,” the lieutenant said. “In case you haven’t noticed, sniper rifles are in short supply. The armory happens to be several thousand miles away. About the only thing that’s plentiful on this island would be coconuts, sand, and Japs. Speaking of which, it’s going to be dark soon, so we need to dig in for the night.”

“Hey, Honcho, when do we go after the Japs?” Philly asked. He seemed to be enjoying the fact that he was allowed to call an officer by a nickname just a little too much.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Philly. There will be plenty of Japs around tonight. They’re accomplished night fighters, believe me. Tomorrow, we’ll do some training in sniper tactics. Don’t forget what I told you about Guadalcanal. Believe me, if you don’t learn how to beat the Japs at their own game, you won’t last a minute out there.”