Hunter Sniper

When they had first heard about those, nobody could believe it. It still took some getting used to, the idea of Japanese pilots committing suicide by flying into ships and taking as many US sailors with them as possible. For the average soldier, it was just further evidence of the death wish that seemed to possess the Japanese forces.

“What are we supposed to do with the wounded, then?” Philly asked, sounding disgusted. “Those poor bastards need help.”

“Division is sending a surgeon up from the beach to do what he can for the wounded,” Steele said. “I guess it’s easier to send him here than to try and move the wounded.”

As promised, the surgeon soon appeared, bouncing along in a Jeep with two orderlies. The Jeep was being driven in blackout conditions, its headlights reduced to slits to avoid drawing enemy fire. The flip side was that the dim headlights made navigating the jungle road more than a little challenging. It was a lucky break that there was still some lingering daylight as the Jeep pulled up.

An officer got out and dusted himself off as Lieutenant Steele approached.

“Welcome to Camp Downes, Doc,” the lieutenant said.

“This is it, huh?” the surgeon asked, looking around. He was well into his forties, of average height, and was wearing wire-rimmed glasses. He took off his helmet to rub a sweaty bald head. He had a bit of a paunch that his baggy uniform didn’t quite hide. Considering that nobody was going to get fat eating army food, the paunch must have been a vestige of civilian life.

“It’s my understanding that it used to be one of our bases before the Nips took it over in forty-one, along with the rest of the Philippines,” Steele explained.

“Glad we got here when we did. I don’t think we could have found it once it got any darker.”

“Yeah, it won’t be long before it’s as dark out here as the inside of a meatball,” Philly added.

The combat surgeon gave Philly a quizzical look, as if he was wondering whether he had just found a genuine Looney Tune, but he didn’t respond. He turned his attention back to the lieutenant. “I’ve got to say, this place isn’t much to look at. But I’m sure glad we found you. I was half expecting to run into enemy lines by mistake. The way I understand it, this place is still crawling with Japanese.”

“You wouldn’t be wrong there,” Steele said.

“You’re in charge here?” the surgeon asked.

“Captain Merrick is the company commander, Doc. I’m just in charge of this little corner of paradise,” Steele replied. “I’m Lieutenant Steele.”

“That’s good enough for me, Lieutenant. I’m Captain Harmon, by the way. Doc Harmon,” the surgeon said. He studied the lieutenant’s face — or rather, his leather eye patch. “Why, Lieutenant, I believe you only have one eye. That’s not a fresh wound either. What the hell are you still doing in the field?”

“Just lucky, I guess.”

The surgeon shook his head. “Most men I know would be more than happy to be sent home if they were in your shoes.”

“I guess I’m just not ready to give up the fight yet.”

“I know the feeling,” the doc said. “All right, take me to the wounded, and let me see what I can do for them.”

“This way, Doc.”

The orderlies unloaded medical equipment, and the surgeon also carried a bag. It seemed like precious little equipment, considering the injuries of some of the wounded, but the surgeon didn’t appear daunted in any way. He quickly fell into step beside the lieutenant.

The Japanese seemed intent on reminding the soldiers that this fight wasn’t over. From time to time, sniper fire punctuated the darkness. There would be a muzzle flash somewhere in the forest and then the crack of a bullet. Sometimes a man went down, but mostly the sniper fire seemed intended to rattle the soldiers’ nerves. It was harassing fire, pure and simple.

Nobody really knew what the Japanese were shooting at, but every soldier’s natural inclination was to think that the bullet was aimed at him. Nobody blamed a guy for flinching. They were all a little jumpy.

To his credit, and showing that he was no stranger to a combat zone, the doc didn’t even bother to duck at the sound of sniper fire.

The surgeon was guided to where the wounded had been placed on the ground, with a few shelter halves strung over them to keep off the nighttime damp. Under the circumstances, it was the best that could be done for them. The musty smell of the canvas mingled with the odor of blood and sweat, sweetened by the occasional breeze that had carried all the way from the sea, salty and fresh.

A few of the wounded lay moaning, one or two were cursing, and the worst off didn’t make any noise at all. The exception was a soldier with a bad chest wound and ragged breathing. A couple of stretcher bearers had volunteered to tend to the wounded, and they went from man to man, offering water.