“Best keep your head down, Philly,” Deke said. “Don’t let these Nips get you all hot and bothered. It’s just what they want.”
“I am crack shot,” the Japanese voice called in heavily accented English. “Put your head up and I will show you.”
The voice seemed to be coming from the vicinity of where the Japanese sniper was hidden. With a jolt of realization that struck him hard as a bullet, Deke realized that it must be the Japanese sniper himself who was taunting them.
“Son of a bitch,” Deke muttered, leaning into the rifle and hoping for a shot. “I’d sure like to nail that Jap’s hide to the barn door.”
Judging by the growing number of taunts, several Japanese had at least a passing knowledge of English. But the language barrier was lopsided. On their own side, Yoshio was the only one who knew the enemy’s language.
Overall, it was a bizarre experience to be trading insults with the enemy. They were no longer anonymous Japanese soldiers, targets in their rifle sights. The exchange of prickly words had made the fight personal in an entirely new way.
Between the verbal barbs and the sniper’s bullets, Deke decided that he’d had enough. The enemy sniper was too dug in for him to see. He needed to goad the sniper into showing himself, but how?
He decided that he would try putting his hat on a stick so he could draw fire with it. He reckoned the sniper was too smart for old tricks, but you never knew. Before he tried the hat trick, Deke had a better idea. He turned toward Yoshio.
“Hey, kid. You said that they hurled a big insult at you by saying that you were a traitor to the Emperor.”
“That’s right. As if I had anything to do with the Emperor in the first place.”
“What would be a big ol’ insult to shout back at the Japs?”
Yoshio smiled. “Oh, I could think of a few.”
“Like what?”
“How about calling them barbarians? They would hate that. Even the lowliest Japanese soldier believes that Americans are inferior savages, so they would be truly insulted.”
“Sounds good to me. Go on and give it to them in their own language.”
Nodding, Yoshio took a deep breath and let loose a diatribe in Japanese. He fired words at the same rate as a machine gun. Deke couldn’t understand any of it, but he supposed it was sufficiently scathing, judging by the increased rate of fire in their direction once Yoshio had finished.
“Hey, Charlie! Show yourself! I promise not to shoot.”
Yoshio wasn’t falling for that. He settled deeper into the trench, a big grin on his face. “That felt good.”
Deke decided to join the fun. He shouted, “Y’all couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn.”
In response, a single shot cracked overhead. “How about that, Charlie? That close enough for you?”
“You missed!” he taunted.
“Put up your head and see if I miss again.”
“Who are you?” Deke shouted.
There was a moment’s hesitation. “I am Gunsō Ikeda.”
Deke glanced at Yoshio, who explained, “Gunsō means that he’s like a sergeant. Sergeant Ikeda.”
Deke raised his voice. “Sergeant Ikeda, huh? This here is Private Deacon Cole, United States Army. I reckon we’ve met before, on my last trip up this hill. Stick your own head up and see what happens.”
There was a long pause as the Japanese sniper processed what Deke had just said. “You! You were a raider? Cowardly American!” As if to punctuate the words, a bullet spit gravel and dirt from the lip of the trench.
“Aw, you missed again.” He looked at Yoshio once more. “How was that? You reckon I got him riled up?”
“Not bad, but this is better.” Yoshio added his own stream of invective in Japanese. The sniper responded in kind.
Deke was curious. “What did you say to him?”
“I said that his ancestors must have, uh, you know… consorted with goats, or possibly sheep.”
“I’m impressed, kid. That was a pretty good insult. I reckon he didn’t like that.”
“He said that if he catches me, he will gut me like a fish while I am still alive.”
“Sounds to me like he’s an irritable son of a bitch. I believe he’d make good on that threat. Just to be on the safe side, you’d better not get caught.”
Throughout the verbal exchange with the enemy, both Deke and Philly had been watching the Japanese position carefully. The enemy sniper already knew where they were, but now they had a better idea of where he was hidden. Philly had binoculars pressed to his eyes.
“Talk to me, Philly.”
Philly needed to paint a picture in words. “See that pile of three rocks, with the one rock that kind of has a black splash on it? Maybe dried blood or something? It’s right across from us, but more like the one-o’clock position than high noon.”
Deke’s eye stared intently through the scope. “I see it.”
“I’ll bet there’s a rifle pit behind those rocks. He’s got to be in there.”
“Keep an eye on him. Let me see if I can stir the pot.”
Deke now had a better idea of where the sniper was hidden. Again he was reminded of the fact that unlike the Americans, the Japanese defenders would have had time to prepare. The enemy sniper could have made the smallest of openings through those rocks for his rifle barrel. The enemy sniper had every advantage.
Peering through the scope, Deke spotted a dark crevice at the base of the rocks.
He became aware that the air tasted dry, parched. Just like how his throat felt after the brisk hike up the hill. But there was no time to take a drink now. He felt an insect buzzing in his ear but ignored it. The only thing that mattered in all the world right now was the image in his telescopic sight.
Through the lens, he studied the crevice. It looked to him like it might be the perfect hiding place. If he’d been in that Japanese sniper’s shoes, it was just where he’d be.
How does a bullet get in? The same way that it got out.
To Deke’s eye, the crevice suddenly resembled a crooked smile, its dirty lips seeming to brush against the scope, kissing the glass for a moment.
He put his sights on the crevice, looking for a way in.
At first, upon hearing the taunts from the American, Ikeda felt furious. He knew enough English to understand the insults, and as if to be certain that he had not missed anything, that traitor of an interpreter had added insult to injury in Japanese.
Suddenly, shooting the other man didn’t seem to be enough. Ikeda wanted nothing more than to run down that slope and bury his knife deep into the other sniper, not to mention the interpreter.
At least he knew the sniper’s name: Deacon Cole. What kind of a name was that? In Ikeda’s mind, most Americans were named Jimmy, Bill, or Charlie. The names all sounded similar, just as the white faces of the Americans all looked the same to him.
But then a wry smile came to Ikeda’s face as he realized the sheer audacity of shouting insults at him even as the enemy’s position was peppered with machine guns and mortar fire. The enemy was truly laughing in the face of death, which was something that Ikeda appreciated. Ikeda was not much for laughter, but neither would he blink an eye when faced with death.
Was the enemy sniper enjoying this game? Ikeda felt slightly unsettled, wondering what sort of enemy he had run up against.
He supposed that he and the other sniper were forged from the same metal. That didn’t mean Ikeda wouldn’t kill him, given half a chance. He might respect the enemy, but he had no fondness or softness toward him. He hated the Americans all the same.
With renewed resolve, Ikeda got a new grip on his rifle and scanned the slope through his telescopic site. The jeering from the enemy had been foolish in that it had helped to reveal the other sniper’s position, but the man was not so much of a fool to put himself in Ikeda’s sights.