Hunter Sniper

The men had a variety of wounds. Some had been shot, others hit by shrapnel. The ones who had been shot had mostly been hit by rifle fire rather than machine guns. That was because the Nambu machine guns tended to rip a man apart. One way or another, the Japanese were intent on killing them, all in the name of their emperor.

An American soldier could only view that motivation with a mixture of mystification and disgust. Also, no one had ever forgotten the sneak attack on Pearl Harbor. There was a measure of revenge in everything about this war.

They all knew that the cost in American lives had been horrific. Almost countless sailors had drowned, and thousands of airmen had been lost in the skies. That said, the fighting on land somehow felt more personal.

For the average soldier, there were plenty of ways to die in the Pacific that had nothing to do with the battlefield. These included sunstroke, fever, snakebite, and drowning. By and large, combat deaths across the Pacific islands were caused by blood loss, the exception being those who were killed outright. Basically, the wounded bled to death. Depending on the severity of the wounds, death could take several minutes.

A man’s buddies might make some effort to stop the bleeding, but most of the time there was only so much that could be done. It was a hell of a way to go.

The lucky ones died instantly, which was what most soldiers hoped for.

Lieutenant Steele and the surgeon had reached the wounded spread on the ground. At a signal from the lieutenant, Deke and Philly had fallen into step behind them.

The wounded had lived this long, but could they survive the night? The arrival of the surgeon on the front lines had given them some hope.

The surgeon set to work. From the deft way that he handled the wounded, it was clear that Doc Harmon knew his business. The surgeon moved from one injured man to the next, assessing their wounds, while his assistants readied the necessary instruments and supplies.

What he was doing was triage, seeing who was the worst off, who could be saved, and who should just be dosed up with more morphine and made as comfortable as possible. It was basically the way that wounded had been dealt with since the time of the Romans.

“Have we got any light?” the surgeon asked.

“Just flashlights, Doc.”

“All right, I suppose that will have to do. Let’s raise these shelter halves up. I want to be able to stand under here and have some room to move around. See if we can rig some kind of operating table.”

Steele sent the men out to find materials before it was completely dark. A couple of boards that weren’t charred too badly were retrieved from one of the bunkers, then set up on crates. The surgeon had to stoop down, but it would be better than working on the ground.

“What about the Japanese?” Deke asked.

“What about them?” Steele asked.

“They’ll see the light and start shooting at us, that’s for damn sure. Their snipers won’t let us alone.”

“All right, let’s try to rig some sides and maybe block the light.” More shelter halves were found, along with some blankets. Once they were finished, Steele asked, “How’s that, Doc?”

The surgeon looked it over and nodded. “Better than nothing, I suppose. Get that man over there on the table.”

Once the wounded soldier was positioned on the makeshift operating table, the surgeon set to work. One of his assistants held the flashlight as he began probing the man’s wounds and extracting pieces of shrapnel. He did his best to clean the wounds and stitch up the gashes and cuts.

The so-called operating room that had been pieced together out of shelter halves and scrap wood was cramped, but Deke couldn’t help but linger, watching the surgeon work. Philly had practically run out at the first flash of the scalpel, but Deke never had been squeamish about the sight of blood. He had to admire the surgeon’s deft skill.

That was where his enthusiasm ended. He was glad that he wasn’t the one under the surgeon’s knife. He’d rather face a samurai sword than a scalpel.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Deke went outside and joined Philly and Lieutenant Steele, who were smoking cigarettes that they cupped in their hands to contain the dim glow, gazing uneasily at the darkness. Not all the wounded could fit inside the tent, so several were spread on the ground, waiting for their turn with the surgeon. Their torn bodies lay in a rough circle around the tent, some on stretchers and others just on blankets on the ground. They didn’t complain. Again, a couple of volunteers continued to circulate, bringing them water and doing what they could for the wounded.

“Thank God for that doc, or these guys wouldn’t have a prayer,” Honcho said quietly. “I hope to hell we can get them off this island tomorrow.”

Philly spoke up. “I just wish—”