Hunter Sniper

“That ain’t a typewriter,” Deke growled. “Put that rifle butt snug against your shoulder. Squeeze the trigger. Just like you were taught in basic training.”

The clerk looked at him, fear mixed with determination in his eyes as he nodded and did as he was told. The next three shots were better — at any rate, he didn’t appear to be wrestling with his rifle anymore. Whether or not he had hit anything remained to be seen, but at least he was sending bullets in the direction of the enemy with enough accuracy to make them keep their heads down, instead of all his shots going wide.

“Keep at it,” Deke instructed him. “Aim and fire. If you miss one, shoot at him again. If you don’t, he’ll just shoot at you.”

The clerk didn’t respond, but fired two more shots. The stripper clip ejected, and the soldier fumbled with the fresh clip of rounds for the M1.

“Give it here a minute,” Deke said. Deftly, he showed the clerk how to reload the weapon, then handed it back. “Don’t slam your thumb in there. Think you can do that yourself next time?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“All right, then. Do some good with that.”

Up and down the line, similar scenes were playing out as men who didn’t normally handle weapons were getting reacquainted with the M1. More than a few got their thumbs slammed by the action as they tried to reload, a common hazard that often resulted in a swollen and bruised thumb, known as “M1 thumb.” However, with so much enemy lead flying at them, a mashed thumb was the least of their worries.

Mashed thumbs or not, the influx of fresh men began making a difference, bolstering the number of defenders on the line.

The firing continued hot and heavy, neither side willing to pull back and admit defeat. It had become a grudge match.

“Hey, Charlie!” shouted one of the Japanese, hidden in a pile of rocks no more than fifty feet from the American line. “We kill you now!”

“To hell with that!” shouted an outraged Private Frazier, who poured fire from his BAR at the rocks. Dirt and bits of rock flew in every direction. It was hard to say whether he’d gotten the enemy soldier, but the flurry of lead had certainly shut him up.

Setting aside the clerks and other support staff, the backbone of the defense was made up of veteran soldiers. For the past few months, they had lived and breathed combat. They knew their M1 rifles and other weapons better than they knew the contours of their wives and girlfriends. The combat veterans were tough and stubborn, even when the Japanese were equally so.

The Japanese made one last, mad push down the hill. The US line had been holding steady and hadn’t appeared in danger of being overrun — but this renewed attack made it waver and buckle, similar to a sail billowing in a strong wind.

Handfuls of attackers reached the US line, screaming their battle cries, resulting in hand-to-hand combat. Most of the Japanese had already fixed bayonets, which was a popular tactic. The idea was to rush in close with the Americans, overwhelming their defenses. On the US side, knives were drawn. Rifles on both sides were fired from the hip, no aiming necessary.

The supply staff and mechanics proved to be an ace up the Americans’ sleeve, because they were excellent brawlers. Maybe operation of the M1 gave them some trouble, but they understood well enough how to smash the butt into the skull of an enemy infantryman. The tactic being used by one big sergeant was simply to grab the enemy soldier’s rifle and twist it away, then punch the man in the face.

But as fast as they dealt with the Japanese, more appeared. Once again, the outcome of the battle balanced on a knife’s edge.

Captain Merrick came running at a crouch and slid into position beside Deke, like he was sliding into home plate. A burst of tracer fire stitched the air that his body had occupied just an instant before.

“Deke, everybody says how you’re a great shot, so don’t let me down now. You see that Japanese officer near the top of the ridge? I’ve been watching him through my binoculars. The son of a bitch must lead a charmed life. He’s up there directing the whole damn attack. I need you to take him out.”

“All right,” Deke said.

“He’s pretty far away,” Merrick said doubtfully.

“He ain’t that far. Not as far as Japan, anyhow. As long as I can see him, I can hit him,” Deke said, then looked around for Philly, who was twenty feet away, busy dealing with a Japanese soldier who had run close to their position. He looked around some more and his gaze settled on the skinny clerk. “Soldier, I need you to cover our asses. Don’t let any Japanese run up and stick us with a bayonet. The captain here is gonna watch through those binoculars of his and tell me how to correct my aim if I miss.”

“You got it.”

Deke had managed to tell Captain Merrick what to do without giving him orders. The captain was now watching the ridge intently through his binoculars.