Hunter Sniper

Deke’s rifle had been manufactured the year before at the federal armory on the banks of the Connecticut River in Massachusetts. It was a Model 1903A4 Springfield rifle. The Weaver telescopic sight had been made in El Paso, Texas, with a magnification of 2.5, which meant that the details of the surrounding jungle terrain sprang much closer. Japanese and German optics both had a reputation for being more precise and finely made, but the sturdy Weaver scope got the job done.

The Germans and Japanese seemed convinced of their manufacturing superiority when it came to weapons, even if their output could not keep pace with US production, but in this case, American steel, wood, and optics had been combined into a superior rifle.

Finally, the rifle was a reliable workhorse, or maybe even a sturdy mule. The Springfield was highly forgiving compared to the semiautomatic Garand M1, with its more complex moving parts. It hadn’t let Deke down so far. However, there was no sense trusting the rifle’s reliable function to luck.

He set to work, field stripping the rifle and pulling the bolt free. The metal surface was indeed grimy with gunpowder residue and minuscule bits of metallic fouling. There was possibly mud mixed in there, and the ever-present tropical moisture wasn’t helping. Deke set to work, knowing that it was nothing that a rag and gun oil couldn’t handle.

The metal soon gleamed again and smelled of gun oil rather than sulfur. As far as Deke was concerned, nothing smelled better than gun oil. Hell, if they ever put gun oil into an aftershave, he would have bought it.

Finishing up the rifle, once again ready for action, he set it aside. Deke felt tired, wrung out, even more than usual. He wished he had a cup of strong coffee, maybe with some sugar in it, but that wasn’t going to happen. He settled for a long drink of tepid canteen water, the metallic taste sour in his dry mouth.

Most of the men had managed a few hours of sleep after an exhausting night, but it hadn’t been enough. Their sleep banks were long overdrawn.

Next to him, Philly and Yoshio finally began to stir.

“Look at that, I slept on a rock and didn’t even notice,” Philly remarked groggily. He touched the small of his back and winced. “Must have been tired. I’ll feel it today, that’s for damn sure.”

“You sure you didn’t sleep on that rock with your face?”

“Very funny, country boy. Aren’t you just a ray of sunshine?” Philly yawned. “Damn, when we finally get back home, the second thing I’m going to do is sleep for a week.”

“What’s the first thing you are going to do?” Yoshio asked, unable to resist.

“I’ll tell you what, Yoshio. Since you asked. The first thing I’m going to do is look up Nancy Holland and see if she will give a war hero like me a warm welcome home. With any luck, I’ll spend the week sleeping in her bed. When she lets me sleep, that is.”

Deke snorted. “Good luck with that. When I get home, the first thing I’m gonna do is get something decent to eat. Maybe a big breakfast with sausage and gravy. Hell, I’d settle for a hamburger.”

“Ice cream,” Yoshio muttered dreamily. “Fresh strawberries with cream. Orange juice.”

“You dopes can go home and eat hamburgers and banana splits if you want to,” Philly said. “I’m gonna go home and eat some pussy. Maybe put a pickle on it.”

Deke couldn’t help but laugh at Philly’s crude humor. The conversation of most young soldiers usually focused on the things they had to do without in the jungle — food, booze, and women — with the usual amount of bragging, boasting, and wistfulness mixed in. Philly was just saltier than most, and a bigger liar.

Now that the sun had risen above the hills to the point that the sunlight finally managed to flood across the small airfield, Deke looked above the rim of the foxhole at the morning view. His good mood evaporated at the sight before him.

Daylight revealed the full carnage from the previous night’s battle. Several dead Japanese lay scattered across the airfield. Some were balled up into fetal positions they had assumed during their agonized dying throes, while others sprawled exactly where they had fallen, killed instantly, perhaps by one of Deke’s bullets. He didn’t feel any remorse, however. The Japanese would gladly have done the same to him.

These had been crack Japanese troops fighting a desperate battle, and they had sold their lives dearly. Maybe a few had slunk back into the jungle, but it looked to Deke as if most of the paratroopers had been killed here last night.

Deke looked around and saw where he had shot that Japanese bomber before he could reach the fuel dump. Seeing the number of avgas barrels now visible in daylight, Deke realized it would’ve made quite a bang. Most of the company would have been incinerated. Although Deke’s bullet had brought him down, the dead Japanese soldier’s body was in several pieces thanks to the bomb he’d been carrying. He spotted what looked like a leg, and a few feet away, a hand still gripped the remnants of the stick bomb.