Hunter Sniper

The vessel had been designed strictly for function, which was to carry supplies across the Pacific and fend off any Japanese attacks as needed with its guns. The ship rolled somewhat gracelessly in the waves, fighting the currents in Leyte Gulf. More than a few of its passengers had become seasick as a result.

Rodeo had referred to the ship as a tin can, which was an apt description. “Tin can” was usually a nickname for US Navy destroyers, but Steele and Rodeo were soldiers, not squids, so they could call the ship whatever they wanted.

“Can’t wait to get back on dry land, huh? Spoken like a true ground pounder,” Steele said. “But I’d say this tin can beats walking, wouldn’t you? Don’t tell me you wish you were hiking across the peninsula with Deke, Philly, and Yoshio?”

“No thanks to that, sir. I hope those guys are all right.”

Steele nodded in agreement.

Not long after they had helped seize Hill 522 and the town of Palo, the scouts and snipers of Patrol Easy had been split up. Deke and Philly were now making their way across the interior of Leyte, a jungle region crisscrossed with rugged terrain — not to mention lots and lots of desperate Japanese who would be dug in and looking for a fight.

Dividing the patrol had not been Steele’s idea, but as with this sea voyage, nobody had asked his opinion.

Still, if anyone was going to survive a cross-country patrol through the jungle interior, he thought that it would be Deacon Cole. Together with that tough Filipino guerrilla, Danilo, they would be a match for any Japanese they encountered. As for Philly — well, at least he had Deke to look after him, the lieutenant mused.

Rodeo also seemed to be pondering the scenario of a jungle trek. “You know what, Lieutenant? As long as the Japanese don’t shoot it full of holes, I guess I like this tin can just fine. It’s better than swimming to Ormoc.”

“There you go,” Steele said. “Anyhow, next time you want to complain, do me a favor and bitch to somebody else. Like maybe a seagull.”

“A seagull, sir?”

“Or a mermaid. Hell, you can complain to a mop bucket if you want to, just so long as I don’t have to listen. Better yet, go find a poker game or something. Maybe go clean your rifle. You’re bothering me.”

Rodeo grinned. “You got it, Honcho.”

Rodeo took the hint — the lieutenant hadn’t exactly ordered him to get lost — and made himself scarce, losing himself in the crowd on deck.

“Honcho” was what he had instructed the men to call him instead of “lieutenant.” It didn’t matter so much here on the ship, where protocol required the use of “sir” and saluting when appropriate. Besides, there weren’t any trigger-happy Japanese spying on them at sea. But back on land, addressing an officer using his rank or saluting him was like signing his death warrant at the hand of Japanese snipers. The Japanese had been trained to seek out and target officers.

Considering that he liked his head just fine without a bullet hole in it, Steele had come up with the “Honcho” business.

The nickname was something of a joke on the Japanese, considering that “Honcho” came from a Japanese word for “chief.” They hadn’t seemed to figure that out yet, and it was just fine with Steele if they remained in the dark.

Tall, with gray hair showing at the temples, Steele was on the wrong side of forty for a lieutenant. There were probably younger generals. His men couldn’t decide if that meant he had pulled strings to avoid the headaches of rising through the ranks, or if he had royally pissed somebody off to the point that he was never going to be promoted. The men under his command generally bet on the second scenario, although they would have been wrong in Steele’s case.

He had no plans to be a career officer — he’d be more than happy to go back to civilian life. In fact, having lost an eye on Guam while tangling with a Japanese sniper, he had a valid excuse to be shipped back stateside. But he felt that there was unfinished business regarding the war.

On the rare occasions when Steele had tried to explain it out loud, he had fallen back on simply stating that he was doing his duty. He supposed that summed it up as well as anything.

But it went deeper than that. He thought that the United States of America was a big, messy, imperfect country, but a place where a man could still say and do what he wanted. Just try getting away with free speech in Germany or Japan. If that wasn’t worth fighting for, he wasn’t sure what was.

Being an officer had a few perks — and plenty of headaches. He had found the right balance by getting himself put in charge of these scout-snipers, a job that nobody else wanted and that the army didn’t seem sure needed doing. That job, and not getting shipped back home after being half blinded on Guam, had required pulling strings and calling in favors.

What did he have to go home to? Not much.