He and Philly weren’t the only thirsty ones. Just about everyone had an empty canteen, and there was no hope of going off to find a water source to refill them — not with the Japs keeping them pinned down. Some men plucked the sharp-edged kunai grass and chewed it, hoping to suck a little green juice from it, but the grass was so dry that it offered little relief.
One GI had spotted a coconut that had fallen from a solitary tree on the ridge. The coconut sat on the ground in plain view, tempting someone to crack it open for the sweet milk inside. In his desperation for something to drink, the soldier had started to crawl toward it. A Japanese sniper quickly picked him off.
Deke shook his head at the thought of a man’s life tossed away in hopes of a few swallows of coconut milk, but that was what thirst did.
Off to the right, Deke heard a metallic clatter coming at them. Automatically Deke swung his rifle in that direction.
“Don’t shoot!”
To his surprise, he saw Dickie Shelby crawling toward their position on all fours, his back and shoulders crisscrossed with webbed belts and empty canteens. It was the clatter of the canteens that had gotten Deke’s attention.
“Dickie, what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
“I’m going for water.”
“Like hell you are. You’re drawing fire, that’s what you’re doing!”
As Deke said it, another shot ripped the air inches from their heads. Laden down like a pack mule, Dickie made an irresistible target. He didn’t so much as flinch when another bullet passed close by. The young soldier’s fear seemed to have melted away, even if his baby fat remained.
“Give me your canteen.”
“Look here now. Don’t get killed on my account.”
“C’mon, give it here.”
Deke handed it over, if for no other reason than to get Dickie out of the line of fire.
“I’m pretty sure there’s a stream down at the bottom of that ravine,” Dickie said, nodding in the direction of the ravine directly behind them. “I have to try to find one, at least.”
“It’s your funeral,” Philly said. “Are you sure you want to do this?”
Dickie didn’t answer but jumped up and ran for the cover of the ravine at their rear. He zigged and zagged as he ran, the clanking canteens swinging every which way, making him a ludicrous sight. He looked like a cluster of khaki-colored grapes with legs. By some miracle, their new water boy wasn’t killed right away. Perhaps the Japanese were laughing so hard that they couldn’t get off a good shot.
“We’ll never see him alive again,” Philly announced.
“I don’t know about that,” Deke said. “Sometimes fortune favors a fool.”
“I guess you’d know, huh?”
“Keep it up and you won’t have to worry about the Japs.”
Philly snorted at that, but he kept his mouth shut.
As the afternoon heat intensified, the promise of water only added to the torment. It might have been better if there hadn’t been any hope of water at all. At one point they heard rifle shots coming from that direction — the sharp crack of an Arisaka. Deke figured that was that — Dickie’s luck had run out, and some Japanese sniper had gotten him for sure.
Less than an hour later, they heard shouting from that direction. Dickie came into view, calling, “Cover me!”
The soldiers on the ridge obliged by pouring fire at the Japanese position. Still, bullets plucked the air near Dickie, or churned up the dry dirt at his feet.
“Magnificent,” Captain Merrick muttered, shaking his head. “I don’t think I can put him in for a medal for fetching water, but damned if he doesn’t deserve a gold-plated canteen.”
“He’s a regular Gunga Din,” someone said.
Against all odds, Dickie had run the gauntlet of Japanese fire, found a water source, and returned. Deke had seen more than a few amazing sights so far in this war, and this had to be one of them. He was witnessing an act of sheer bravery.
Dickie threw himself down next to Deke, positively sloshing. A bullet had struck one of the canteens, punching a hole in it, and Philly grabbed it up and let the precious water flow into his mouth before any more could spill on the parched ground.
“You should treat the water first with halazone,” Yoshio warned, but Philly was beyond caring about that.
Deke fired off a couple of quick shots in the direction of the Japanese who had been shooting at Dickie.
“Here’s a canteen,” Dickie said. “I’m not exactly sure it’s the one you gave me.”
“Don’t matter. Hell, I’d drink out of Hirohito’s canteen at this point.”
Before Deke could say more, Dickie was up and running again at a crouch. He threw himself down once more next to Private Frazier, the BAR gunner, who was the soldier nearest to the snipers’ position. He left a canteen for Frazier, who covered Dickie’s dash for the next position by letting loose a long blast from his BAR.
“I do love that thing,” Philly said in admiration, after he had taken a long gulp of water. “It’s the sound of revenge.”
Dickie ran on, dodging bullets like he must have the luckiest rabbit’s foot in the world in his pocket.
The question was, How long could that luck last?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
From his sniper’s nest in the rocks, Ikeda watched the water bearer running across the ridge, laden with canteens. He decided that the soldier was either very brave — or very foolish.
The soldier also seemed to live a charmed life. Despite drawing fire from so many of Ikeda’s comrades, the American soldier had managed to dodge their bullets.
But he had not yet tried to dodge a bullet from Ikeda.
Intrigued, Ikeda tracked the soldier through his scope. Shot after shot was aimed in the water bearer’s direction, kicking up dirt around his feet. Ikeda spotted a bullet clip one of the canteens, which spit out water in a long stream, like a miniature fountain. Fortunately for the Japanese, they had plenty of water. They had filled their canteens earlier, probably from the same stream that the American had discovered at the foot of the ravine.
He saw the water bearer leap down beside the rocks where he was sure the American sniper was hidden. So he is thirsty too. Ikeda took pleasure in knowing that his enemy was experiencing some discomfort.
He watched intently, hoping that the American sniper might raise his head to take a drink, offering Ikeda a momentary target, but the man kept his head down. Most of the Charlies were anonymous targets — medics, officers, everyday soldiers — all to be targeted. But this sniper was something different. He was like Ikeda himself — a skilled marksman. This made him not only a worthy opponent but a dangerous enemy to be eliminated.
Shooting the enemy sniper would be like claiming a prize. Also, Ikeda could not forget the fact that this same sniper had played a role in the raid that had destroyed the powerful battery on Hill 522. Had that battery still been in place, it would have obliterated the invasion fleet.
Suddenly, through the scope, Ikeda saw the water bearer leap up and run. Covering him, one of the American soldiers sprayed the ravine with an automatic weapon. His comrades dove for cover. Ikeda did not flinch, knowing that the bullets were not aimed directly at him.
Instead, he kept his eye to the telescopic sight, focusing on the running man. Hitting a moving target was never easy, but fortunately for Ikeda, he had plenty of practice from picking off the lazy Filipino workers on Hill 522. They had seemed to move quickly only when they were being shot at.
He swung the rifle in a gentle motion that kept pace with the water bearer, keeping the crosshairs a little ahead of him. It wasn’t anything that Ikeda could have explained. He was operating on pure instinct.