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Maybe he could change that.

Ikeda shouted back, hoping to goad the enemy into showing himself: “We have women in Japan who are better shots than you. Are you listening, Deacon Cole?”

“I heard you loud and clear, Ikeda. I’d sure like to meet one of them girls,” the American replied, the man’s hard drawl floating across the no-man’s-land. “I reckon I will, soon as I get to Japan. Won’t be long now.”

Ikeda gritted his teeth. The thought of Americans in Japan was almost too much to bear. That is why we must defeat them here, on Leyte. Each day that we do not crush them brings them closer to Japan.

“Do not rest too easy, Deacon Cole,” Ikeda replied. “You will be dead by morning. If I don’t shoot you, then one of our glorious fighters will kill you tonight.”

“You can try,” came the reply. The American did not sound particularly concerned. “Sneakin’ around is the only chance you cowards have to win.”

Ikeda couldn’t bring himself to respond. He would not give his enemy the satisfaction of an answer, but he wondered if the response was part of the plan to intimidate him. It was part of the game, after all. Marksman against marksman.

“What’s the matter, Ikeda? Cat got your tongue?”

“I do not want to play games,” Ikeda said. “Why waste my breath?”

“I’ve been watching you since I got up here on this hill. I know all I need to know. I know you can’t shoot worth a damn.”

Ikeda’s anger flared up, and his breath grew rough, but he clenched his teeth and said nothing. He would not be baited into this childish game. He had resolved to do whatever it would take to bring down the other sniper, even if it meant enduring insults.

Again, Ikeda forced himself to tamp down the anger. It was just what the enemy wanted — to make him lose his composure, but that was not going to happen.

He scanned the ground opposite him through the scope. The no-man’s-land was parched by the sun and torn by artillery shells, but there was no clear target.

The enemy occupied the other side of the no-man’s-land, set up in trenches dug by the Japanese themselves. They hid behind sandbags and earthworks, their heads poking out to take shots at the Japanese.

Just for good measure, Ikeda fired a shot in the direction that he thought the voice had come from.

“You missed,” came the reply. There was a cold laugh. “Aim a little to the left next time.”

“Put your head up and see what happens next,” Ikeda shouted.

Something moved across from him. A hat flashed into view. Ikeda recognized the flat-brimmed hat that he remembered the enemy sniper wearing during the raid. Instantly his sights lined up on the hat and his finger touched the trigger.

In reply a rifle shot cracked past his head, so close that he felt it disturb the very air around him. He flinched and sank deeper into his hiding place. Another shot ricocheted off the rock at the opening of his shooting spot.

Too late he realized that the hat must have been on a stick. The oldest trick in the world, and he had fallen for it, revealing his hiding place in the process.

He heard the oddly grating, drawling voice. “Damn, not bad, Ikeda. You done shot a hole in my hat. Too bad for you that it ain’t on my head.”

Ikeda didn’t bother to reply but chewed his lip and decided to wait for dark. Now that the American sniper knew where he was hidden, it would be too risky to try to move while it was still daylight.

Shadows were already gathering at the base of the hill, almost like an incoming tide. Only the summit remained bathed in the last light of the sun, touched by the gold and red of a Pacific sunset.

A revving engine overhead caught his attention. The evening sunlight caught the wings of a lone American fighter plane that came in low and strafed the summit, moving at such an incredible speed that the antiaircraft batteries only managed to raise puffs of smoke in its wake. The plane swiftly flew out to sea, back toward the aircraft carrier that had launched it.

Ikeda sighed. Where was the Imperial fleet that had been promised to crush the Americans? If the battle was not to be won on the ocean, then it must be won here on land, starting on this hill.

So far he had not been able to shoot the American sniper. Perhaps he would go down the hill tonight and stick a knife into the American after all. That would certainly be satisfying — even better than a bullet.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

The standoff between the Japanese and the GIs continued as the shadows on the hill deepened. One side wanted that ground; the other side refused to give it up. If the Americans were determined to take the hill, then the Japanese were just as determined not to give up one more inch of ground. No place but war was ownership of real estate settled with bullets, blood, and bayonets.

As so often happened in the tropics, the island twilight lingered and seemed to go on forever. The soft light began turning gray, hinting at the darkness to come but still tinged with color from the tropical sunset. It might have been a magnificent display if anyone had taken notice of it. The Gis had other thoughts on their minds, though, worried about the night to come.

The shadows of the soldiers jutted out of the trench from time to time, keeping an eye on the enemy, rifle muzzles gleaming dully in the fading light. Looking more closely, many of the soldiers’ faces were etched in a rictus of fear, their eyes narrowed and mouths set in grim, stiff lines.

“Damn but I hate the nighttime here,” Philly said. “We’re still in this damn trench, which is the last place I want to be once it gets dark. The Japs are right across from us. You’d think we would have kicked those bastards off the hill by now.”

“What’s your rush?” Deke wanted to know. He kept his eyes on the enemy position, rifle cupped against his shoulder, hoping for a flicker of movement to give one of the Japs away.

“I hate sitting around,” Philly responded. “Back home I’d rather walk than wait for the bus.”

It was the army way to go slow and steady, grinding down the enemy like a millstone, unlike the hard-charging marines.

The sun was setting, and the sky became the color of pink coral. Sheets of dark clouds hanging low on the horizon added deep reds and purples to the already stunning array of colors. It was yet another beautiful tropical evening. Grudgingly, Deke had to admit that the sunsets were spectacular in these parts. He wouldn’t have said that the colors were any better than the mountain sunsets he knew so well. Still, they were beautiful in their own way.

Deke didn’t spend much time admiring the glow of sunset. He and the rest of Patrol Easy knew the stalemate couldn’t last for long, and the setting sun served only as a reminder that night and all its dangers were coming on fast.

All the while the Japanese gun battery at the summit kept up its steady fire, wreaking who knew how much havoc on the American forces on the beach below. Still, the Japanese artillery was a yapping pup compared to the big dogs of the American fleet. Those big guns had kept silent, however, for fear of dropping a shell on the heads of their own troops on the hill.

The air stank of gunpowder, and the sickly sweet odor of the dead began growing in the tropical heat.

The gun battery, meanwhile, had been knocking out American artillery on the beach and harassing the landing craft that were closer in, within range. Though the enemy was deadly accurate, they had been unable to halt the American advance, which brought in continuous waves of supplies to the beach area.

Through it all, the Japanese riflemen and machine gunners hidden in their defensive placements on the hilltop continued to keep up a steady fire, as if mocking the Gis.