Hunter Sniper

While their military role might be different, it was also true that you weren’t going to meet any tougher soldiers than mechanics and supply sergeants. They were already unsung heroes.

However, they were not frontline combat troops. The actual fighting was usually left to soldiers like the men in Captain Merrick’s company. Much to their surprise, these rear-echelon men had been told that they were headed for the front lines.

Loaded onto the captured Japanese trucks, they had been given whatever weapons were available. Technically, every man in the division was a potential combat soldier, but it had been a long time since some of these men had handled a weapon, much less fired one. From the sounds of the firing in the not-so-far distance, it sounded as if they were going to have plenty of opportunity to get reacquainted with the use of their rifles.

Looking dazed, these men jumped down from the trucks to reinforce the beleaguered company.

Merrick was also taken aback when he saw that one or two of the relief troops still wore the aprons they’d had on back in the mess area, as if they had been rounded up in the middle of slinging hash. But what he really cared about was that these were men with rifles. A cook could still shoot.

He shouted orders, getting them into position.

* * *

One of the newly arrived soldiers was Private Dean Rafferty, a clerk whose chief skill was that he could accurately type sixty words a minute on his military-issue manual typewriter. Anyone who had ever tried to type on one of those clanking beasts would realize that this was no small feat. Clearly Private Rafferty had fingers like steel claws.

Still, Rafferty was on the scrawny side, being five foot six and weighing 125 pounds soaking wet. He was so skinny that it looked like he might fall between the typewriter keys if he wasn’t careful. He’d barely made it through boot camp. His drill sergeant had never once used his actual name, but had dubbed him “Pencil Neck.” It was probably no wonder that he had quickly been designated as a clerk. Nobody seemed to think he would get very far marching with a rifle and a fully loaded haversack.

Watching the battle-worn soldiers trudging through camp, young Rafferty had often wondered what it must be like to experience combat. He had even daydreamed now and then of leading a charge, or single-handedly wiping out a nest of Japanese. However, the headquarters tent back on the beach was as close as he’d come to the sights and sounds of battle — until now.

Nearly tumbling out of the truck that had rushed reinforcements to the front line, he had stumbled around in confusion until he found himself shoved into position, literally landing on the ground next to a tough-looking soldier with bad scars on one side of his face.

Holy cow, what happened to him?

The soldier gave him a glance out of the corner of his eye, a look so cold that Rafferty felt his blood chill a bit despite the tropical heat. The soldier went back to firing a rifle with a telescopic sight. A sniper, then.

The noise of battle was deafening and confusing, but Rafferty figured out what he was supposed to do fairly quickly, helped by the fact that an officer with an eye patch was shouting, “Shoot the bastards!”

Another clerk who’d been brought up from the beach suddenly slumped over, shot through the head. Too late for that poor soldier, the officer added further instructions, “Dammit, keep your heads down while you’re at it!”

Rafferty focused on the stretch of land in front of him. He was amazed to see actual Japanese soldiers on the hillside. The officer had reminded him that his job was to shoot at them. The enemy soldiers were scurrying from rocks to clumps of bushes, running low, making difficult targets.

He fired off a shot that went wide. He tried again, but in his nervousness he ended up yanking on the trigger before he had even picked out a target. He’d forgotten to put the rifle butt tight against his shoulder, so that each time he fired, the stock leaped back and kicked him. His shoulder soon ached, and he felt like he’d been punched in the jaw.

His own rifle was beating him up worse than the Japanese.

* * *

During a pause while reloading, Deke glanced at the scrawny soldier beside him. It looked like he was trying to wrestle with the rifle as much as shoot it. Deke shook his head. Where did they find these dumb bastards?

He wasn’t sure why, but he took pity on him. Judging by the soldier’s clean uniform, he was not used to frontline duties, probably a clerk. Something safe back at HQ. The kind of fella who typed up long lists of soldiers killed in action, confident in the fact that his own name wouldn’t be on that list anytime soon. All that had changed with the Japanese advance threatening to overrun the beachhead.

Deke had to give him credit. This clerk was fighting as best as he could against the oncoming Japanese. He just couldn’t shoot that rifle worth a damn.