It was this higher branch of the hill’s summit on which the cave-like bunker was located. Ikeda felt reassured that Major Noguchi was still nowhere in sight. As much as he respected Noguchi, there were things that the major didn’t understand or even approve of.
The sun had climbed overhead, blazing in the humid sky almost like a light bulb swathed in cotton gauze. Ikeda found some shade in a machine-gun pit that had been carved into the slope. Netting had been strung up to provide camouflage from the marauding enemy aircraft that had begun to appear with more frequency in the skies above.
Ikeda settled into the hole and took a drink from his canteen, enjoying the shelter from the sun that the netting offered. Morosawa settled in nearby. Like Ikeda, he also carried a sniper’s rifle with a telescopic sight, but he kept it slung over one shoulder. He knew that Ikeda would tell him if and when he needed it. The other man sat quietly, not asking any questions. Ikeda was reminded of why he liked the man.
The shade from the netting was welcome. Below, the workers laboring across the hillside were not nearly so fortunate. The tropical sun beat down mercilessly upon them. Officers cajoled and berated the men to work harder, but the heat was taking its toll. Men who couldn’t keep up were sometimes kicked or hit with the sticks that the officers carried as a badge of authority.
Ikeda had no idea that Americans with their democratic ideals would have been astonished by this treatment of soldiers, but the Japanese enlisted man expected it. Japanese society had a strong class system in place, going back centuries to the era of the samurai. As part of the ruling class, officers were not to be questioned. Ikeda and his band of sogekihei fell somewhere outside the accepted order. They were more like ronin — ancient warriors who had served as roving mercenaries. Ikeda gave a rare smile at the thought.
The constant weeks of labor had taken their toll on the workforce below, leaving the troops exhausted, their uniforms looking worn out and dirty. Soon enough, they would still be expected to put down their shovels, pick up their rifles, and fight. It was a hard life without much to look forward to except achieving the final glory of death.
Ikeda put the rifle to his shoulder. This was a high-quality version of the standard Type 97 Arisaka rifle. Lately the rifles arriving with replacement troops had been of poor quality, made in a rush to meet wartime quotas, often using inferior materials, showing where corners had been cut in their blocky wooden stocks and roughly finished barrels and actions. His own rifle was one of the beautifully made early models that showed pride in craftsmanship.
The bolt-action rifle had been developed by its namesake, Japanese Army colonel Nariakira Arisaka, and adopted by the military in 1897. The rifle was reliable, in many ways the epitome of fine Japanese craftsmanship, but it had become somewhat dated in the intervening decades compared to the semiautomatic M1 rifles developed by the Americans.
Essentially, the rifle had changed little since its introduction, other than the fact that millions had been made for the war effort beginning in 1939.
Ikeda’s version had an effective range of fifteen hundred meters, which was farther than most of the sniping done in the jungle settings of the Pacific islands. He certainly wouldn’t be shooting at those ranges today — no more than a few hundred feet.
His Arisaka compared favorably to the Springfield rifle often used by US snipers, although it fired a lighter cartridge. Was one rifle better than the other? In many ways, it came down to the talents of the marksman. In Ikeda’s hands, the Arisaka was definitely a deadly weapon.
He studied the laboring men through the telescopic sight. He ignored the Japanese troops, focusing his attention elsewhere.
Mixed among the Japanese were groups of local Filipino laborers. It was these men whom Ikeda watched through the telescope. These men were little more than slave laborers, pressed into service without pay.
They were mostly a pathetic rabble, several of them too feeble for hard labor. These men shuffled back and forth under their burdens. Many of the more capable younger men had slipped into the jungle to fight with the guerrillas, meaning that the Filipino laborers were mostly men past their prime or barely more than boys. They might be locals, but they were not immune to the effects of the midday sun. The heat and humidity did no one any favors. Normally the local people knew better than to work during the heat of the day — the old Spanish tradition of the siesta wasn’t unknown in the Philippines.
There was no rest for these men, however. They knew there would be dire consequences if they sagged to their knees or dared to sit down. Their actions tended to slow as the heat grew, but their Japanese overseers were having none of it. If Japanese soldiers were berated, with an occasional smack with a stick or a kick in the hindquarters to serve as motivation, the Filipino laborers received far worse. They were treated cruelly by the officers and sergeants overseeing them. It was hard to say what the average Japanese soldier thought about the Filipinos — he was probably just glad that they were taking the worst of the punishment.
Nearby, Morosawa grunted with approval as they watched one of the laborers being struck with a stick. “Serves him right,” Morosawa said. “Those people are useless.”
“I am glad you agree,” Ikeda said. “Why stop at a stick?”
“Sergeant?”
Seeing Ikeda’s cold smile, Morosawa had figured out what Ikeda intended to do. For all his composure, Morosawa seemed shocked. “Are you going to shoot that man?” he asked, a little anxiously.
“Be quiet, Morosawa.”
In his heart, Ikeda felt no pity for these laborers. These men were nothing more than targets.
He settled the reticule on one of the laborers swinging a pickax. Tall for a Filipino, the man had stripped off his shirt. Ikeda put the sights right between his shoulder blades and squeezed the trigger just as the man raised the pick for another swing. The rifle bucked against Ikeda’s shoulder, and he watched with satisfaction through the scope as his target crumpled.
The rifle shot had not gone unnoticed. Many heads looked up the hill in Ikeda’s direction, wondering who was shooting. Of course Ikeda himself was hidden in the rifle pit.
Sergeant Ikeda’s next target was a group of laborers working near one of the trenches. They were loading bundles of brush over their shoulders and carrying them to the trench to be used to build low protective walls of dirt and brush. The laborers appeared to be moving at a snail’s pace. Ikeda didn’t know who was in charge of this group, but he suspected that it must be one of the softer officers. Several of those laborers would have benefited from a good beating.
He put the rifle sights on the last man in the line — the slowest one. Little did the man know that he had just seconds to live. It gave the sniper such a sense of power. A satisfied smile crossed Ikeda’s face. He might stay up here all day, shooting to his heart’s content.
But that was not to be the case. Major Noguchi appeared in the mouth of the bunker above Ikeda’s position.
“Who is shooting?” he demanded.
Reluctantly, Ikeda rose from his hiding spot, wondering if perhaps he had taken things too far. Morosawa did the same.
Ikeda stood at attention and saluted the major. “Sir!”
“Sergeant Ikeda, you will stop that immediately!” For once, Noguchi appeared furious. However, it became clear that his anger was not motivated by any compassion for Ikeda’s victims. “Stop shooting my laborers! We have discussed this, Ikeda. How will we get any work done if you keep shooting them?”
“Yes, sir.”