Savage Sniper

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

“No way,” Lieutenant Steele said after hearing Deke’s plan. “Absolutely not. And just in case I wasn’t clear, no way in hell.”

“I don’t like it any better than you do, Honcho,” Deke admitted. “But have you got any other ideas?”

“No, I don’t,” Steele admitted reluctantly. “It’s still just about the worst plan I’ve ever heard, but goddammit, it’s so idiotic that it just might work.”

As commander of the guerrillas, Father Francisco had been invited to hear Deke’s plan. He didn’t like it, either, and made a suggestion of his own.

“We could toss a note over the fence,” he said. The look on the priest’s face indicated that he was grasping at straws. “Wouldn’t that be easier?”

“I don’t think so, Padre,” Steele said. “What happens when one of the guards picks it up instead of one of the prisoners? The Japanese will know what we’re up to and then start executing our people.”

“You have a good point. Nonetheless…” The priest left the thought unfinished.

“Yeah, nonetheless,” Steele agreed.

Deke’s plan was simple but outlandish. He had proposed turning up at the prison gate and allowing himself to be captured. It sounded like madness, but it might be their best chance of getting a man on the inside. It seemed unlikely that the emaciated POWs could overpower the guards. However, Deke might be able to organize some sort of breakout, knowing that Patrol Easy and the guerrillas were waiting in the wings.

To that end, a plan was hatched to cut a hole in the perimeter fence just after midnight on the second night.

“I’d rather cut that hole in the fence sooner rather than later,” Steele said. “But you’re going to need some time to organize the breakout.”

“Sounds about right,” Deke said, although he was beginning to have his doubts. Did their entire escape plan actually revolve around simply cutting a hole in the fence and leaving the details of getting through that hole up to Deke?

“One thing for sure is that we’re not going to leave you in there,” Steele said. “One way or another, we’ll get you out.”

“If the Japanese shoot me outright from the get-go, you won’t have to worry about it.”

The lieutenant frowned. He didn’t have a good response for that.

They talked it over some more. When he presented himself at the gate, it was decided that Deke’s cover story would be that he had become separated from his patrol and had been wandering in the jungle for three days. Desperate and starving in the harsh forest environment, he had been willing to give himself up.

There were a couple of flaws in Deke’s plan. The first — and it was a big one — was that the Japanese wouldn’t believe him and would shoot him outright. The second flaw was that he might be kept separate from the other prisoners and not have a chance to communicate with them. Finally, it was possible that the appearance of a soldier at their gate would alert the Japanese that American troops were in the vicinity. They might double the guard in preparation for an attack, thus making escape harder.

“There are more holes in this plan than I’ve got in my socks,” Lieutenant Steele said unhappily. He glared at Deke. “But if you’re willing to give it a try, then so am I.”

“I was afraid you might say that,” Deke replied. He handed his rifle and bowie knife to Philly. “Take care of these for me, old buddy. If I don’t come back, shoot some Japanese for me.”

“You’ll come back.”

“I sure as hell hope so.” Deke attempted a smile to set everyone’s fears at ease, but it looked more like a grimace. “Those Japanese aren’t going to know what hit them.”

The midday sun was blazing down when Deke appeared at the gates of the prison compound.

The arrival of an American soldier at the prison gates caused consternation, to say the least. Deke didn’t understand a word of it, but there was a lot of shouting, some of it directed at him. He couldn’t understand any of it. He saw plenty of rifles pointed at him, but nobody was shooting — at least not yet.

He had arrived without a weapon and with his arms raised over his head in the universal gesture of surrender. He had to credit the sheer surprise at seeing an unarmed American with keeping him alive.

However, they weren’t opening the gates. The Japanese guards kept looking suspiciously at the empty dirt road leading to the gates or at the empty trees in the distance. Maybe they thought that Deke was some sort of Trojan horse. Come to think of it, he was just that, at least in a sense.

Finally, the Japanese came up with an officer who spoke English. He wore round eyeglasses that gave him a studious appearance, like a militant schoolteacher.

“What do you want?” the officer demanded.

“Help me,” Deke said, letting it all pour out. “Please. I can’t take it out here anymore. I got separated from my unit, and I haven’t had anything to eat in days. I want to surrender.”

This was the story he had agreed upon with Lieutenant Steele. The Japanese officer looked him up and down skeptically. His gaze took in the scars on one side of Deke’s face, and the officer’s eyes briefly widened in surprise. It was a universal reaction, Deke thought, whether it came from a Japanese officer or a girl at a USO dance.

Deke certainly looked the part of a GI who had wandered the jungle for days. He carried no rifle or knife; he had no food or canteen. He’d already been plenty dirty, but he had rubbed even more dirt into his face and uniform.

At a gesture from the officer, the gate was opened just wide enough for a couple of soldiers to slip through.

They looked around nervously before hurrying through the gap and then dragging him inside. The gate was immediately shut again.

Before Deke even knew what was happening, his legs were kicked out from under him, and he was dumped on the bare dirt. When he tried to look up, one of the guards clipped him on the jaw with the butt of his rifle, and Deke fell again, his whole world spinning.

He was starting to think that this had been a very bad idea.

“You are a prisoner now,” the officer said. He then said something in Japanese to the guards, which Deke surmised to be something like, Drag him along and make sure he hits every bump on the way.

Two guards shouldered their rifles and dragged him between them. They were a lot stronger than they looked. If Deke hadn’t been a few inches taller than the men, he doubted that his feet would have touched the ground. While dragging him, they somehow managed to get in a few punches as well.

He was taken to what resembled a small, rough-hewn shed with a single door. The door was opened, Deke was thrown inside, and then the door was slammed shut.

There were no windows, so it was like being thrown down a well. The only light filtered through the cracks, so it took his eyes a while to adjust to the darkness. When they did, he found himself staring at four plain walls made of unpainted boards. In fact, the interior of the shed proved to be sweltering. The lack of light did not make it any cooler. The whole place smelled of dust, rot, and despair.

The inside of the door had no knob or latch of any kind. There was a solid floor of thick boards. He couldn’t quite stand up all the way before his head hit the pitched roof. The roof was thatched with some sort of reedy material that had the musty smell of moldering straw, but it didn’t have any give to it whatsoever. The thatch did provide a home for a multitude of tropical insects that he could hear scurrying around inches from his face.

The shed hadn’t looked all that sturdy from the outside, but Deke quickly determined that it was more than sturdy enough to hold him.

He put his back against the wall and slid down until he reached the floor, noting that his jaw ached from where he’d been hit with the rifle. That guard had whacked him a good one. He was sure that he’d have one helluva bruise.

Now what?

It turned out that he didn’t have to wait long, although in the dark interior he had somewhat lost track of time. He was dragged out again, blinking in the blinding sun. The Japanese officer that he had started to nickname Eyeglasses in his mind was there with a couple of soldiers who took him firmly by the arms. Also present was a tough-looking noncommissioned officer who promptly punched Deke in the gut, knocking the wind out of him.

The sergeant grunted in satisfaction and said something in Japanese.

The bright sun in his eyes was causing more pain than the blow, but he managed to swivel his head around, doing his best to get a good look at the interior of the prison camp. There were no other prisoners to be seen. They had apparently been ordered to their barracks or were out on work detail, but several Japanese were present. Some stared in amazement at the man who had shown up at their gate; others laughed at the sight of such a pathetic American soldier as Deke was presenting himself to be.

One thing seemed clear, which was that the compound was not on high alert. Deke apparently was not seen as a threat, and his appearance had not set anyone on edge. He wasn’t sure if he should be relieved or insulted.

This time around Deke was dragged into a much larger structure. His best guess was that he had been taken to the camp headquarters. This building had windows, at least. A Japanese battle flag on the wall and a framed portrait of what must be the Japanese emperor were the only decorations. The flag with its off-center meatball radiating the rays of the rising sun seemed oddly out of context, considering that he had mainly seen these flags waved as souvenirs by GIs. The sight of it in its natural state felt sinister.

Once again he was dumped unceremoniously on the floor of a large room. When he started to get up, he was shoved back to his knees. Apparently he would only be allowed to kneel.

For a while no one spoke. Deke noticed that the room was presided over by a single desk. Given the rustic surroundings, the desk was imposing and almost baronial, built of dark wood with ornate trim. He supposed that it had been liberated from some old plantation house and brought here as a spoil of war and a symbol of prestige, a statement about who was now the master of this domain.

Accompanying him to the room were the officer who had captured him, along with the stocky noncommissioned officer who had punched him. With a start Deke realized that this might be the same sergeant he had watched beating a prisoner with a cane. There were also a couple of soldiers, bayonets at the ready on the muzzles of their rifles. At one command from Eyeglasses, Deke was sure that the two soldiers would be more than happy to skewer him with those bayonets.

Behind the massive desk sat an officer who watched him with a gaze that resembled that of a cat — seemingly disinterested but predatory all the same. At any moment Deke feared that the man might pounce.

This must be the commandant. He appeared to be in his early forties, with strong shoulders evident even as he sat behind the desk. His hair was close cut and balding in the classic male pattern, making the bony ridges of his skull stand out like the backbone of a mule. With his face of stone, Deke had to admit that the man had an intimidating appearance.

This was the Japanese whom he had seen previously from a distance, armed with a bow and arrow. Glancing around, Deke spotted the bow and arrow in a corner, within easy reach of the man behind the desk. The bow was surprisingly tall, roughly Deke’s own height. The wood looked smooth, well rubbed with oil or wax so that it gleamed. He was sure that a bow that size packed a wallop. There was a kind of resting power to it, like an unflexed muscle.

Deke couldn’t help but think of the sniper that he had gone up against on Guam. That sniper had favored wearing a Samurai headband.

What was with these Japanese? Did they all figure that they were Samurai?

Deke nodded at the bow. “What do you hunt with that thing?”

Immediately Deke was swatted in the back of the head by the noncommissioned officer. The expression on the man’s face was one of complete outrage.

The officer who had taken Deke into custody at the prison gate shouted angrily, “You do not question Colonel Yamagata!”

Deke just rubbed his head while the commandant assessed him. Finally the man said in English, “What are you doing here?”

“I got separated from my unit,” Deke said. “Then I came across this place. I figured that it was either surrender or starve.”

This response generated a fresh series of blows, again delivered by the sergeant, this time with a length of cane across Deke’s shoulders and back.

The commandant asked him again, “What are you doing here?”

“Like I said, I got separated from my unit. I was lost until I came across your Ritz-Carlton here in the jungle.”

Again, the cane came down. The commandant repeated his question. That was when Deke realized that he was being interrogated. Everyone else in the room seemed clear on that. Deke reckoned that he was just slow to catch on.

He was regretting his plan again for what seemed like the umpteenth time.

In any case, he gave the same answer that he had before. This only earned him another beating.

However, the commandant did not repeat the question in the aftermath. He only looked at Deke with a sneer and said, “You must not be much of a soldier if you chose surrender over an honorable death in the jungle.”

“The way I figured it, what with how things are going for you Japs here on Leyte, I won’t be your guest for very long.”

That comment prompted another flurry of whacks from the bamboo cane. Deke figured that he’d been asking for it that time. Some of the blows fell upon his shoulders, some across his back, and a few drifted to his buttocks and the backs of his legs — maybe that was just so they wouldn’t feel left out.

Each strike hurt like hell, but he didn’t do more than grimace. He refused to give these Japanese the satisfaction of hearing him cry out in pain.

The beating hurt, but he’d grown up with a stern pa who believed that the most direct route to the loving correction of one’s son involved a leather belt with a big brass buckle. The leather strap stung, and the buckle left bruises. These lessons were most often delivered after Pa had consumed some amount of whiskey.

Consequently, Deke was no stranger to a beating. Also, his pa had been a whole hell of a lot stronger than this sergeant beating him now. He never had given his pa the satisfaction of whimpering, and he sure as hell wasn’t going to do it now for these Japanese.

By the time he was done, the sergeant was panting from the effort.

The commandant looked on impassively, but Eyeglasses seemed a little uneasy. He appeared to be staring at something in the back of the room, as if trying to avoid watching the proceedings.

The commandant took up a new line of questioning. “What is your name?”

“Private Deacon Cole.”

Whack went the cane across his shoulders.

“I will ask you again. What is your name?”

Deke’s name didn’t change, and neither did the beatings.

The interrogation, such as it was, continued off and on for two hours. As if to prove that it was all some sort of sick game, the whole thing paused long enough for one of the sentries to go out and come back in with a little bowl of rice and some water for Deke. While he ate, the commandant busied himself reading through papers on his desk. The other officer and the sergeant went out on the porch and smoked cigarettes; Deke could smell the tobacco smoke drifting in. They spoke in low voices and laughed, apparently sharing a joke.

Then the sergeant came back in, picked up his cane, and the whole business started all over again.

Considering the amount of energy expended, Deke wasn’t sure that the enemy had learned a whole lot that was useful, but he had a personal moment of enlightenment. Looking at the bored-looking commandant behind his desk and then at the Japanese sergeant wielding the cane, Deke decided, I’m gonna kill these sons of bitches the first chance I get.