Beside him, Deke saw Philly wince. Even Deke couldn’t help but stare at the bandage covering Lieutenant Steele’s right eye. The wound still appeared to be weeping, the bandage discolored by a yellowish stain that nobody wanted to think much about. The scars on Deke’s face ran deep, but at least he’d kept both eyes.
Lieutenant Steele continued, “Our job is to do what we can to deal with the snipers so that they don’t bog down the advance like they did on Guadal. We’ll either be in advance of the other units, or we’ll stick around to deal with any Jap snipers that get left to the rear. Understood?”
“Yes, sir!”
The lieutenant frowned. “All right, first rule of the game. Nobody calls me lieutenant, or sir. That’s a surefire way to get an officer killed. The Japs have been trained to listen for those words and target the officers. The Japs don’t play fair. Come to think of it, neither did we, back in the Revolutionary War — the sharpshooters always targeted the redcoat officers first. And whatever you do, for God’s sake, don’t salute anybody.”
Philly said, “Then what do we call you?”
“Don’t call me anything, if you don’t have to. Otherwise, call me Honcho. I’ve heard that it’s actually a Jap word, which should confuse the hell out of ’em.”
“You got it, Honcho.” Philly seemed pleased with the notion that he was under orders not to salute anybody.
“Now sound off and tell me who you are. I’ll take nicknames if you’ve got ’em.”
Philly was first in line. “Private Lange, sir.”
“What did I just say about that?”
“Sorry, s—” He caught himself before addressing the officer as “sir” again. “I go by Philly, which is where I’m from.”
“Philly it is, then. Can you shoot, Philly, or are you better at shooting off your mouth?”
“Sure, I can shoot. I’m a crack shot.”
Deke raised his eyebrows. That was not what Philly had told him. Had he sold himself short to Deke, or was he just trying to make himself look good to the officer? It just went to show that you couldn’t trust city slickers.
“We’ll see about that. Now how about you?” the lieutenant asked, looking at the next man.
Deke went last. “Deacon Cole. I reckon I go by Deke to most.”
“I reckon you do. With a name like Deacon, you must be a religious man.”
“I was this morning, waiting to hit the beach.”
“There’s nothing wrong with a good prayer, I’ll give you that. But can you shoot?”
Deke shrugged. “Some.”
“Let’s find out. We’re going to see if anyone here can actually shoot, or if you’re just a bunch of deadwood that somebody was trying to get rid of. All right, then. Deke, we’ll start with you.” The lieutenant pointed toward a coconut tree at the edge of the beach, where a single coconut still clung. Somehow it had survived the naval bombardment earlier. “Let’s see if you can hit that.”
Deke raised his rifle. The open sights blotted out the coconut, which was just a speck at this distance. He didn’t feel at all shaky anymore. The rest on the beach and even the few gulps of the horrible water had done him a world of good.
Holding the rifle steady, Deke let out a breath, breathed in another, and held it, then slowly began to squeeze the trigger.
“Anytime now,” Philly muttered. “You’re lucky that coconut isn’t shooting back.”
“Shut up, Philly,” the lieutenant said. “I suppose that is kind of hard to hit. You can take a knee, if you need to, or even—”
Deke fired, the rifle punching into his shoulder.
High up in the tree, the coconut shattered.
The lieutenant stared at the distant tree, hands on his hips. “Huh. I guess that answers the question about whether you can shoot. Now let’s see how the rest of you do,” the lieutenant said. For a target, the lieutenant pointed out coconuts that had been thrown by the shelling far out onto the beach. Contrasted against the sand, they made good targets. “Philly, you go first.”
Philly approached the firing line with all the swagger of Babe Ruth stepping up to the plate. He made a show of rolling his shoulders, then tested the wind direction by wetting his finger and holding it up — never mind that the sea breeze was clearly blowing directly at him. On the beach, the Pacific wind never seemed to stop blowing.
“Quit screwing around,” the lieutenant said, exasperated.
Philly nodded, then put the rifle to his shoulder. He aimed and squeezed off five rapid shots from the M1. His rate of fire was impressive. Gouts of sand erupted down the beach, indicating where the bullets had struck, but the coconut went unscathed.
“That’s about what I expected,” the lieutenant said.
“Damn thing doesn’t shoot straight,” Philly complained.
The others laughed, except for Deke. The lieutenant just scowled. “Don’t laugh until the rest of you show me what you can do. Ingram, you’re up next.”
Ingram hit the coconut on the second shot, causing it to hop high into the air. Rodeo missed altogether.
The last soldier stepped forward. “Pawelczyk,” he said.
“That’s a mouthful. Polish, huh?”
“That’s why my buddies call me Alphabet.”
“I’ll bet they do. The question is: Alphabet, can you hit the target?”
It took three shots, but his final bullet sent the coconut flying.
“Not bad, Alphabet. I guess we’ll keep you around.”
The men all became so caught up in the shooting match that it was almost possible to forget that they were in the middle of a war, in the middle of the Pacific. Deke couldn’t seem to take his eyes off the jungle just beyond the beach, scanning for any enemy soldiers, unwilling to let his guard down while the others turned their attention to the shooting match.
He noticed the lieutenant doing the same between rounds of the men shooting.
“Ingram, it looks as if you might give Deke here a run for his money,” the lieutenant said.
“What about you, sir? Aren’t we gonna see you shoot?”
“What did I say about that? You want to get me killed?”
“Sorry, sir. Uh, I mean, just sorry.”
The lieutenant hefted his shotgun. “With this bum eye the Japs gave me, I’ll have to stick with a shotgun.” What seemed to be unspoken was something they all knew, which was that the lieutenant’s eye injury should have been his ticket home. A lot of men, especially officers, had managed to get sent home with less severe injuries. Instead, the lieutenant had decided to stay and fight.
The jury was still out on whether that meant he was a brave son of a bitch — or had a death wish.
The lieutenant continued, “Unfortunately, it’s my dominant right eye that’s bad, so I’d have to learn to shoot a rifle all over again. Instead, I’ll have to leave the shooting up to you men, or some of you, at least. Deke, Ingram, and Alphabet will be the designated snipers, while Rodeo, Philly, and me will be the scouts. That’s the eyes and ears of a sniper.”
“You?”
“There’s no room for deadwood in this unit, and that includes me.”
“What about weapons, Honcho?” Ingram asked.