Noguchi turned to Ikeda, who had observed the firing of the guns with just as much amazement as anyone. His own rifle felt puny by comparison to the massive power of those artillery guns. “You are not the only one who is a sharpshooter,” Noguchi observed with pleasure.
“How would I ever hit a ship with a rifle?”
“That is why these guns are so important. With one volley, we can destroy a ship. Imagine what we will do to the invasion fleet.”
“That may be true, sir.” Ikeda gave a rare smile. “But when the Americans eventually come ashore, you will be glad of my rifle to protect your precious guns.”
“Of that I have no doubt, Sergeant Ikeda. You and me, we are a team.”
Ikeda looked the short, stout officer up and down, as if contemplating that possibility. Noguchi had demonstrated the power of his impressive guns, but soon enough Ikeda knew that he would be able to demonstrate the ability of his snipers.
“Yes,” he finally agreed, tightening the grip on his rifle.
CHAPTER SIX
In typical army fashion, it was a case of hurry up and wait. Despite the jeep that had come looking for them, nobody important seemed to have time for Lieutenant Steele, who was left hanging around the command area, awaiting orders.
“Any word, Honcho?” Philly asked. They were all eager to hear what their next assignment would be. “They’ve sure got you cooling your heels.”
Steele just shook his head and lit another cigarette. If there were two things that they never seemed to run out of, it was bullets and cigarettes. The army kept them well supplied with both.
“It sure as hell beats getting shot at by the Japanese on that beach,” Steele said. “Now get out of here before someone puts you to work.”
Philly didn’t need to be told twice. He caught up with the rest of Patrol Easy and filled them in. “Nothing doing yet,” he said. “But I’m pretty sure we aren’t being sent home to do a War Bond tour.”
Yoshio and Egan took the downtime to draw new fatigues, considering that their old ones had been swept out to sea. Seeing them in fresh uniforms, even new boots, was a strange sight. Just about every soldier who had been on Guam for any length of time had a uniform that dripped with sweat, was stained with mud and worse, and was ripped in several places by the tropical thorns.
Philly whistled at their appearance. “You two look like a couple of green beans!”
“Don’t worry about that,” Egan said. “Hot and humid as this place is, we’ll look just like we used to in a couple of days.”
“You got that right,” Philly agreed. “It’s hard to stay looking pretty in this place.”
It was true that the tropical weather took its toll. It seemed to rain on a regular basis. Already, jungle rot was becoming an issue for troops in the field for any length of time. Then there were the swarms of insects. Some just liked to get into your ears and nose and mouth, while others liked to bite.
Sitting nearby, Deke shook his head. He spent the downtime cleaning his rifle. It wasn’t really necessary, considering that he’d taken only a few shots with it this morning, but it gave him something to do. The sand was more of a culprit than gunpowder residue. Here on the beach, the sand seemed to get into everything. Besides, he’d gotten superstitious about it. Some guys had a lucky rabbit’s foot. For Deke, the equivalent was a spotless rifle.
“Do you always have to make the rest of us look bad?” Philly complained, watching Deke run yet another swab through the barrel. “This isn’t boot camp anymore, you know. Nobody is going to inspect that rifle.”
“You didn’t complain about my rifle when I shot those Jap snipers this morning and saved your ass from getting swept out to sea.”
“Point taken,” Philly agreed. “How many did you shoot this morning?”
Deke shrugged. He didn’t feel that killing people was something he wanted to keep track of, even if they were the enemy. Some guys did keep count, but Deke wasn’t interested.
Philly didn’t press. He knew that if Deacon Cole wasn’t feeling talkative, then it was best to leave him alone.
“Mail call!” a clerk shouted, and the soldiers on the beach gathered around. While it was true that everyone did their part, the combat soldiers couldn’t help but view clerks, cooks, and other support staff with more than a little disdain. But the clerk’s arrival with a sack of mail had made this guy a hero for the moment, as if he had swum all the way from Hawaii tugging that mail sack after him.
The clerk started calling out names. He managed to stumble through Alphabet’s last name. “Pawelczyk! I sure hope someone sent you some vowels.”
“Very funny,” Alphabet said, stepping forward. Grinning, he accepted a small package. “I hope to hell it’s socks!” he said.
Philly’s turn came, and he received a letter that smelled vaguely of perfume. “Look at that,” he said, waving the letter. “Here I am on the other side of the world, and the dames can’t leave me alone.”
“Aw, it’s probably from your sister,” Rodeo said.
“You mean your sister, don’t you?” Philly said.
“Geez, I hope she’d have better taste than that.”
The letters and packages were a welcome break in the monotony and a reminder that someone back home was thinking of them. Those who received mail were thrilled, and those who didn’t were disappointed, but they took some satisfaction in the news from home and packages being shared by others. It went without saying that mail delivery was a huge morale booster. It was also a commentary on the American capability to drop a letter in a mailbox several thousand miles away and eventually have it delivered to a beach on the island of Guam.
Just when mail call seemed to be over, one last name was called. “Cole!”
Surprised, Deke set his rifle aside and retrieved a package from the clerk. His surprise was nothing in comparison to the astonishment of the rest of the squad. Deke wasn’t one to get much mail, much less a package. The only one who had ever written to him was his sister, Sadie, and those letters had been few and far between.
“What the hell did you get?” Philly wondered, gathering around with the rest of Patrol Easy.
“Socks?” Alphabet asked. He’d gotten a tin of cookies that was quickly being devoured by soldiers who were all too tired of their combat rations, but not the dry, fresh socks that he craved.
“No, it ain’t socks,” Deke said. He was just as mystified as the others, and he sure as hell didn’t like the attention. “I reckon it’s too heavy.”
That was when he noticed the return address. The package had been sent by Hollis Bailey, who had a forge in the hills back home. He knew Hollis mainly by reputation. With growing curiosity, he tore off the paper and opened the package to reveal a bowie knife. The gleaming, razor-sharp blade was nearly a foot long, with a handle made from stag horn. The bowie was a knife design straight out of American history. There was no comparison at all between this knife and the standard blades that they had been issued. To be sure, the army-issue knives were sturdy enough, but this knife was like a Cadillac compared to a Chevy.
Philly whistled. “That’s no butter knife.”
“I’ll be damned,” Deke said. He got a good grip on the handle and turned the knife this way and that, enjoying the heft of it in his hand. It wouldn’t be a bad blade for hacking his way through the jungle if it came down to it.
Deke couldn’t have known it, but Hollis had made a similar knife for Deke’s cousin, Caje Cole, who was fighting in Europe. In fact, Hollis was making knives for any local boy who was off fighting the war.
The knife had come with a sturdy leather sheath. The bottom of the sheath included a thong so that he could secure it to his leg. Deke had to hand it to Hollis — the knifesmith had thought of everything.