Savage Sniper

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Deke scanned the forest for some clue as to where the enemy sniper was hiding.

But he wasn’t quick enough. Meanwhile, there was another sharp crack as the sniper tried to pick them off. The bullet whined uncomfortably close, snipping off the tip of a nearby bush. The sprig of greenery spun away and slapped Deke in the face.

Each shot will get closer, Deke thought grimly, and meanwhile they were pinned down.

“All right, we’ll have to go around him if we can,” Steele spoke quietly. “The son of a bitch has got the road covered, so we’ll have to slip off into the trees before he sends us all to hell. Deke, you stay here and cover us. Better yet, shoot that bastard if you can. We don’t have time for this.”

It was yet another proof of the effectiveness of a sniper. A single enemy sniper could pin down an entire company, let alone a patrol. It was a defensive tactic that the Japanese had put to good use throughout the Pacific islands. Snipers remained a better defensive weapon than an offensive one, which usually meant that American tactics favored anti-sniper countermeasures — Patrol Easy itself being a case in point.

Everyone gave Steele a quick word of assent before rushing to gather up their gear. They prepared to scurry away from their current position.

The jungle seemed darker now as evening slowly descended on them. Each second felt like an eternity as they carefully made their way through the thick undergrowth, silently praying for no one to stumble or make any sudden noise that would betray their position and offer the sniper a target. Worse yet, there was no telling if the enemy sniper had friends. Japanese troops might be trying to flank them. At any moment, from any direction, they might run into enemy soldiers.

They advanced until they came upon a small clearing that looked as if it was a bedding place for a family of wild pigs. It certainly smelled like it, rank and musky. They quickly settled into their cover in what little shelter was provided by nearby foliage while simultaneously setting up some basic defenses against potential assaults from enemies who might be moving through the surrounding trees. Their efforts were hindered by the fact that nobody could see more than a few yards into the gloom of the forest.

All in all, it wasn’t the best position to be in, but it was better than being exposed to sniper fire on the road.

“Stay put,” Steele ordered. “I’m going to check on Deke.”

Deke was keeping watch over where he thought the shots had come from, hoping for some hint of the sniper’s location.

The best possibility for the sniper’s hiding place was a clump of trees near a bend in the road. The higher trees would offer an excellent vantage point. He studied the tree canopy through the scope and, sure enough, spotted the silhouette of a man among the branches.

His target was just beyond the range of an easy shot. This helped explain why the enemy sniper hadn’t managed to hit any of them. Maybe the Japanese wasn’t a crack shot. If his sniper’s lair had been set up a little closer, events may have had a different outcome.

But the distances involved were no problem for Deke.

Got you now, Deke thought.

He lined up the crosshairs on the enemy soldier’s silhouette.

Before he could fire, another shot split the tropical air like an angry hornet. Dirt flew up just inches from Deke’s face, but he ignored it, focused on the target.

Crawling up beside Deke, the lieutenant crooked a finger at the tree that Deke was watching through his scope.

Steele had also spotted the sniper.

“Deke, do you see him?” he asked gently.

“Yeah,” Deke replied, and squeezed the trigger.

The gun kicked into his shoulder none too gently. The recoil of the Springfield was impressive, considering that the rifle delivered a wallop. Even at one hundred yards, each bullet still packed more than two thousand foot-pounds of energy.

Deke’s round hit with a solid whunk. Even at this distance, he could almost feel the breath getting knocked out of the Japanese.

The figure in the tree slumped but did not fall. It was a common practice for Japanese snipers to tie themselves into the tree branches. While it gave them stability, it also meant that there was no quick escape from the tree. To Deke, that just seemed like a one-way ticket to hell.

Nobody shot back.

“I think you got the son of a bitch,” Philly said.

“Yeah,” Deke replied.

He worked the bolt, feeding a fresh round into the chamber, the spent brass spinning away. Maybe someone would find it years from now and wonder about it.

They picked themselves out of the mud and dirt and weeds, brushing themselves off in the process. Nobody felt sheepish about it. When somebody was shooting at you, the deeper that you pressed into the dirt, the better your chances were of staying alive.

“I think he was using his dead buddy here like a staked goat, trying to lure us in,” Deke announced. “He knew we’d stop to take a look.”

“I don’t think you’d be wrong about that,” Steele said. “The question is, Did he shoot his buddy for that purpose, or was the man already dead?”

“I hadn’t thought about that,” Deke said. As usual, Honcho was one step ahead of him. “Then again, you had to admit that would be kind of messed up to use someone on his own side for bait.”

Steele looked pointedly at Philly. “Maybe it was somebody who talked too much. Kind of got on his nerves. Glad to get rid of him.”

“Geez, Honcho.” Philly snorted indignantly. “Don’t go getting any ideas.”

It was all familiar banter, and it felt good slipping into their old roles. They all felt a sense of relief that the sniper had been eliminated. Might as well enjoy a few wisecracks while they still could.

They moved on. The shadows stretched longer as the sun dropped lower in the sky. The decreasing heat was welcome, but not the thought of the coming darkness itself. The enemy always seemed to have an advantage at night and even preferred operating under cover of darkness.

“We have to get off this trail and make camp before nightfall,” Steele said. “The last thing we need is to go wandering right into a Japanese patrol once it gets dark.”

At the same time, they were trying to squeeze every bit of daylight out of the air. Every foot they covered would be one less step to take in the morning.

Steele’s fears about running into an enemy patrol soon seemed justified. The lieutenant froze and raised his shotgun. There was no need for orders. Everyone knew what Steele’s reaction meant.

Trouble.

Up ahead, the branches of the trees stirred, moving in a way that was out of proportion to the snatches of breeze that reached down among the trees.

Deke squinted into the shadows, trying to make out what he had seen. After a moment, he saw it again — movement among the trees — something or someone moving with enough force that it shook the branches.

“It’s got to be an enemy patrol!” Philly whispered loudly. “Everyone get down!”

Steele motioned for him to be quiet. For the next several seconds, they all held their breath to see what was next.

Deke listened intently, but there was no sound. He leveled his rifle at the greenery and waited, finger on the trigger, as the branches slowly parted.

Each one of their muzzles was pointed at that patch of brush, ready to open fire.

“Come on out, you bastards,” Philly muttered, rifle at the ready.

The branches parted like the curtains of a stage being opened to reveal the next act.

But the man who stepped onto the trail was not Japanese. First, he was too tall and broad. Second, he wore a simple dark-brown cassock, to which a few leaves and twigs clung.

“Hello, my friends,” said Father Francisco, stepping into the jungle road. “God bless.”

“I’ll be damned,” Steele said, then added, “No offense, Father.”

“None taken. Those rifles of yours are a welcome sight, believe me.” He smiled. “However, I would prefer that they not be pointed at me.”

“Sorry, Padre.” Steele lowered his weapon, and the rest of the patrol followed suit.

Although the priest was not armed, he was not alone. The gap in the brush widened as several men pushed the branches aside. Deke counted a dozen Filipino guerrillas. They were a hard-looking bunch, wearing tattered civilian clothes rather than uniforms and broad-brimmed hats as protection against the tropical sun and whatever creepy crawlies might be inclined to drop down the back of one’s neck from the vegetation above. Deke understood, considering that he had long since abandoned his steel helmet in favor of the Aussie-style outback hat with the brim pinned up on his shooting side.

However, there was no mistaking the deadly intent of these guerrillas. Most carried captured Japanese rifles, although some had recently upgraded to American M-1 rifles. In some cases, a length of rope served as a rifle sling. Deke noted with approval that the battered rifles looked clean and well oiled. The damp tropical environment was not kind to weaponry.

Even more menacing than their rifles, many of the Filipinos wore their customary bolo knives hanging at their sides like small swords or even slung across their backs. The bolo knife was essentially a machete, honed razor sharp to hack through jungle vegetation — a useful tool on Leyte. In some cases bolo knives were passed down from father to son, one of the more treasured possessions of a family that did not own many material things.

In the hands of Filipino guerrillas who had an especial hatred for the Japanese occupiers, it also made a terrifying weapon.

Danilo stepped forward and greeted the other guerrillas. It was one of the rare times that a genuinely warm smile crossed his normally expressionless face. Usually he bore the hardships of war like a true jungle stoic.

No wonder he was smiling for a change. Patrol Easy had just found its reinforcements.

They were acquainted with Father Francisco and his band of guerrillas from their earlier mission to take out the massive artillery battery on Hill 522 outside Palo, ahead of the initial beach landing on Leyte. The removal of the gun had been critical to success, because with its twenty-mile range and devastating shells, the invasion fleet might have suffered heavy losses. The gun had been manufactured for the huge Japanese battleship Yamato and its twin, the Musashi, sunk in the sea battle of Leyte Gulf. Considering that the battleships already had their full complement of weapons, the guns had not been needed on the ships. Rather than let the impressive guns gather rust, the Japanese had installed them in shore defenses.

Technically Patrol Easy had undertaken a mission behind enemy lines — although that line was actually an island in this case. The only reason they had been successful was because of Father Francisco and his guerrillas, who had provided the support and local knowledge to make the mission possible.

The guerrillas had paid a heavy price. As part of a diversionary tactic, some of those guerrillas had attacked Hill 522 and been captured. Deke and the others had watched in horror as the captured Filipinos were beheaded. The brutality of the enemy was difficult to believe, even when witnessed firsthand.

By turns kind and fierce, Father Francisco might have made a good stand-in for Friar Tuck. Growing up, Deke’s encounters with religion had mainly been of preachers of the fire-and-brimstone variety, whose God seemed to resemble a mean old county sheriff intent on punishing humans for every transgression. Father Francisco spread the word with a quiet kindness and his own example. Deke found the priest’s presence reassuring.

The priest had the appearance of being mostly of Spanish descent, being taller and broader than any of the guerrillas. If he hadn’t been garbed as a priest, he would have resembled a bouncer at an off-base dive bar. Even with actual Spanish heritage, his Filipino roots would have limited his career as a priest just a few years before. The Jesuit priests who tightly controlled the church had all been trained and educated in Spain, of which the Philippines was a colony. The Spanish had preserved a system in which the ruling class did not include actual Filipinos.

The capture of the Philippines during the Spanish-American War had brought changes in that the new US government had ordered all the Spanish priests to be sent home. These priests were seen as representing the old Spanish empire, and the church was closely aligned with the Spanish government.

There had been little animosity toward Spain or the Spanish compared to what would come with American feelings toward Germany and even German immigrants in WWI. In fact, popular books of the day published positive accounts of Spanish life and culture, with Spain typically portrayed as a “quaint” European “old country” whose glory days were behind it. The war had certainly resulted in bloodshed, but ultimately it was more of a passing of the torch from an old, tired empire to the up-and-coming American empire.

The old Spanish administration was sent on its way, Spanish Jesuits included, and control of the churches had then fallen to actual Filipino priests.

As part of that new generation, Father Francisco had shepherded the flock in Palo, overseeing the centuries-old church there. The Japanese invasion had caused more upheaval. He had been forced to go on the run by the Japanese. From the jungles, Father Francisco had ministered to the spiritual needs of his flock and played a leadership role in the Filipino resistance.

As it turned out, Father Francisco and the guerrillas had only an inkling of the details of the mission, so Lieutenant Steele quickly filled them in.

When he had finished, Steele asked the priest, “What do you think?”

“Some of my men know this camp. They can certainly guide us there.” Concern clouded the priest’s face. “I am afraid that it won’t be easy. The garrison there is organized, and by all accounts the POW camp is well defended. I think you would say, ‘It won’t be a walk in the park.’”

“That’s why we’re glad to have your help.”

“Perhaps the Japanese will do us all a favor and surrender,” the priest said, a wry twist to his mouth. “Everywhere, the Japanese are being pushed back on Leyte.”

Steele shared the concerns Major Flanders had expressed, that the enemy might simply kill the American POWs outright rather than see them released. “It would be a sharp stick in the eye,” he said. “But you know the Japanese as well as I do. They can be vindictive bastards.”

“Sadly, I have some experience with that,” the priest agreed.

It was true that the occupiers had mistreated the locals, sweeping through the towns and countryside in the last few months to round up any able-bodied men to put them to work building defenses. Essentially, the Filipino population had been used as slave labor.

There had been no recourse or any avenue for appeal. The Philippines was commanded by the military rather than a civilian administration. The local officials allowed to remain in place were often puppets of the Japanese, seeking any crumbs that the occupiers offered them. In Ormoc and Palo, many of the local leaders were skilled at appearing loyal to the occupiers while actually working against them.

“We need to reach that POW camp and free those prisoners before the Japanese get desperate,” Steele said. “They won’t stop short of murder if it means not having to release those men. They’ll do anything to cover their tracks now that MacArthur has made it known that he considers mistreatment of POWs a war crime.”

“In that case, we have no time to lose,” Father Francisco replied.