Yet the sniper was still at work, unseen. In their short time on the island, the Americans had quickly discovered just how effective the Japanese were at deploying snipers. The enemy marksmen certainly took their toll, but they were a psychological weapon as well, operating in areas that the Americans thought were secure.
“I hate these damn Jap snipers,” more than one GI or marine had stated. “They’ll shoot a guy while he’s lighting a cigarette or taking a leak. Doesn’t seem right.”
Nobody wanted to die needlessly, killed by an unseen foe. It was hard to declare victory when you had to keep looking over your shoulder for a sniper.
“He’s still at work, all right,” Philly said, nodding toward a scene nearby, where a sergeant shouted for a medic after a radioman had been hit seemingly out of nowhere. The sniper had just proved the point that carrying a radio was hazardous duty — these men were always among the first to be targeted, right after officers.
“Son of a bitch,” Deke remarked, eye tight against his riflescope as he scanned the battlefield. He could see plenty of dead and wounded Japanese in the deep grass, but none of them appeared to be the sniper. “I don’t see him.”
Private Shimizu stayed quiet. He hunkered down at the rim of the foxhole, busy moving the binoculars over the landscape.
It was almost impossible to distinguish individual rifle shots. They were lost among the din of grenades and mortars going off, or the chatter of machine-gun fire. The fact that the Arisaka rifle was a soft shooter made it a stealthy sniper weapon. The Japanese sniper took full advantage of the situation. Another soldier fell — this time the sergeant who had been standing beside the radioman. The enemy sniper was nothing if not methodical.
Philly got called away by Lieutenant Steele, leaving Deke alone with the interpreter. He reckoned the interpreter would be about as useful as a screen door on a submarine.
But Shimizu got lucky. Behind the binoculars, he was sharp-eyed and attentive. In the wreckage of a Japanese tank off to their left, he saw a flicker of movement, followed by the bright stab of a muzzle flash.
“The sniper is in the tank,” he said.
“Makes sense,” Deke muttered. He had scanned the tank earlier but hadn’t seen any movement. “Where?”
“There is a slight gap there, by the turret.”
Deke returned his sights to the wrecked tank he had noticed earlier, the details of the twisted and blasted hunk of metal quickly springing closer. He quickly scanned the surrounding area and saw a pile of boulders, more grass — but not snipers. He turned his attention back to the tank.
The wreckage would offer excellent cover for a sniper, but it would also be something of a death trap once you were discovered. Toss in a grenade, and that would be that for the sniper. But they were too far away for grenades. They would have to rely on bullets.
Through the scope, Deke stared into the dark maw of the tank. It looked as if someone had taken a giant can opener to it. Black scorch marks covered the edges of the metal.
Finally, he saw a stab of flame. The sniper.
Deke took his time. All his focus was on making a good shot. There wasn’t a soldier who was any good with a rifle who didn’t understand that need. If there was anything that Deke Cole desired in this world, it was to pull the trigger and hear the satisfying whunk of a bullet hitting the target. You could play all the jazz and bluegrass you wanted, but Deke knew the sound of that bullet hitting home was the only music he needed.
Deke squeezed the trigger and fired at where he had seen the enemy’s muzzle flash.
“I think you got him,” the interpreter said.
“Nice work,” Deke said, looking over at the interpreter. “I wouldn’t have spotted him without you. What’s your name again?”
“Shimizu.”
“Shim — what now?”
The interpreter pronounced it more slowly for Deke’s benefit. “Shi-mi-zu.”
“I got to say, that’s a mouthful.”
“How about Yoshio? That’s my first name.”
“Yoshio, huh? That’s got a better ring to it. Yoshio, welcome to the sniper squad.”
“I thought I was already in the squad?”
“That was what we call a trial period. Now it’s official-like.”
Yoshio shook his head. “Whatever you say, Deke.”
“Whatever I say, huh?” Deke grinned. “I can tell that you and me are gonna get along just fine.”
As it turned out, their celebration over nailing the Jap sniper was premature. A few feet away, a runner was going by, carrying a message between foxholes. The man suddenly threw up his arms and went limp as a rag doll before toppling to the ground.
Yoshio had been watching the tank through the binoculars. The sun wasn’t completely up yet, so that much of the ground before them still lay in shadow. With their wider field of view, the binoculars also brought the area surrounding the tank into sharper focus. Out of the corner of his eye, Yoshio saw another muzzle flash — but not from the tank this time.
“There’s another sniper,” he exclaimed. “He’s in that pile of boulders!”
Deke turned his attention to the boulders. Like most of the big rocks here, they were dark gray, nearly black, and porous. Volcanic, one of the officers had called them. But the boulders were plenty thick enough to stop a bullet. Like the tank, they made a perfect hiding place for a sniper.
Deke watched through the scope, waiting for the sniper to show himself or for the muzzle flash to give him away. Where was that Nip son of a bitch?
Then Yoshio yelped as a bullet struck the rim of the foxhole, showering him with bits of coral and dirt. He dropped the binoculars into the bottom of the foxhole, on top of one of the dead bodies.
Deke was sure that the bullet had come from the sniper hidden among the boulders. However, he was not sure exactly where the sniper was located. He also realized that the enemy sniper must have spotted them and targeted them. Deke himself was well hidden, but Yoshio had been more exposed and showing more of himself above the foxhole than he should have. But instead of feeling afraid, Deke grinned. Two can play at that game, you sly Nip bastard.
“You all right?” he whispered to Yoshio, as if the enemy sniper could hear him.
Yoshio touched his cheek, where a chip of stone had drawn blood. He was shaken but otherwise uninjured. He was certainly a lot better off than the two dead men in the belly of the foxhole. “I am fine,” he replied, though his voice sounded shaky.
“Good. I reckon I’d hate for you to be dead, just having gotten to know you and all. Besides, you’re the only Japanese friend I’ve got.”
“Gee whiz, thank you.”
“Listen, here’s what I want you to do. Take the helmet off that dead fella there and stick it over the rim of the foxhole.”
“You want me to do what, exactly?”
“We’ve got to lure out that sniper. You got any better ideas?”
Reluctantly, Yoshio crouched down toward the dead GI. The man’s eyes stared as if accusing him of something as he slipped off the chin strap and tugged the helmet free. “Got it,” he said, and crept toward the edge of the foxhole.
“And Yoshio?”
“Yes?”
“Keep your head down.”
Deke held his breath as Yoshio got into position, his eye pressed tight to the scope, finger tense on the trigger. He reckoned that he would get one chance at this. One shot.
“Ready?” Yoshio asked.
Deke grunted.
Beside him, he heard Yoshio take a deep breath, and then the sound of the metal helmet grating across the debris at the rim of the foxhole. His eye didn’t waver from the rifle sight.
There. He spotted a dim muzzle flash. At the same instant, Deke heard Yoshio cry out as the sniper’s bullet struck the helmet and snatched it away.