Hunter Sniper

A few feet away, they could see Yoshio sitting on a crate, skimming the documents that soldiers had collected from dead Japanese scattered across other sections of Camp Downes. The hope was that he would find maps or orders, documents that gave a hint of the Japanese positions and strength. So far, all that he had come across were letters from home. It was a reminder that the Japanese might not be as monstrous as they had seemed during the night.

When their bodies had been searched, it revealed that many of the Japanese were wearing colorful “thousand-stitch belts” around their waists. Even die-hard souvenir hunters among the US soldiers left them alone. The embroidered belts had been made for the enemy dead by loved ones at home — mothers and wives, sisters and sweethearts. The belts were intended to keep their men safe from harm, much in the way that many US soldiers wore a cross or religious scapular under their uniforms. It was evident that neither crosses nor thousand-stitch belts did much to stop bullets, but a soldier took hope where he could.

In truth, there were a surprisingly small number of dead enemy troops. During the night, it had felt as if hordes were infiltrating the camp. It went to show just how effective the infiltrators’ tactics had been.

“I have to say, these enemy soldiers appear to be in good physical condition,” the surgeon observed, unwittingly echoing what Deke had said earlier to Philly. “It’s not going to be an easy fight.”

“Yeah, well,” Honcho said. “At least these fellas won’t be helping.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The soldiers emerged from their nighttime ordeal dazed and exhausted. Some moved stiffly from being cramped into their foxholes all night. Early-morning jungle dew beaded their helmets and dampened their uniforms.

They had survived the series of piecemeal nighttime incursions by the enemy, but those had taken their toll in a way that was almost as devastating as a coordinated daytime attack, whittling away at their spirit and energy. The night had left their nerves feeling as raw as their bloodshot eyes, tired from straining to see into the darkness.

Now that it was daylight, there was a new threat that the Japanese might be trying a different tactic and launching just such an all-out attack.

“If the Japanese do attack, I hope it’s sooner rather than later,” Deke told Philly. The two men sat side by side in a foxhole, eating what passed for breakfast and washing it down with metallic canteen water.

“How about if they don’t attack us at all?” Philly suggested.

Deke shook his head. “One way or another, we’re gonna have to fight some Japanese today. At least we’re dug in here at Camp Downes. If they hit us once we push on toward Ormoc, we’ll be caught out in the open.”

“Caught with our pants down, you mean,” Philly said. “Wouldn’t be the first time. It’s not a pretty sight.”

“No, it ain’t,” Deke agreed.

Overhead, a single reconnaissance plane made slow sweeps over the frontline area. Nobody paid the plane much attention because it was one of their own.

The plane was designated as an L-4 Grasshopper, basically known in civilian life as a Piper Cub. With a fixed upper wing, a top speed of 85 miles per hour, and a maximum operational altitude of twelve thousand feet, the unarmed army plane wasn’t about to tangle with any enemy fighters. However, the plane’s ability to chug overhead at just under 40 miles per hour made it ideal for observation missions. Typically the pilot got in close while the aerial photographer clicked away.

Honcho paused near Deke and Philly’s foxhole as he made his rounds, then lit up a cigarette and watched the plane overhead.

“He’ll let headquarters know if he sees any sign of the Japanese,” Honcho said. “I just hope to hell the Japanese don’t pull a Saipan on us.”

“If they come, I’ll be ready,” said Private Frazier, who was listening nearby, holding on to his BAR.

“That’s the spirit,” Honcho said. His expression didn’t match his words, however. His sad frown spoke volumes. It was as if the lieutenant had seen and heard it all before — which he had.

By now they had all heard about the fight for Saipan, where the cornered enemy had launched massive waves of banzai charges involving thousands of Japanese troops. At first the US Marines had been overwhelmed. Hundreds of Americans had died in the savage close-quarters fighting as waves of the enemy washed over them like surf dashing upon rocks.

Sheer firepower had eventually carried the day, securing the American lines and wiping out thousands of Japanese troops. In all of the war, including in Europe, there had been no other example of close-quarters fighting on that scale. You would almost have to go back to medieval times for something like that. No one was eager for that scenario to play out here.

So far the enemy seemed content to dig in and let the Americans come at them.