Hunter Sniper

It was a good thing they had found the mirror, because Deke did not feel confident about raising his head up — it would likely get blown off.

“He’s in that farthest window on that second-floor house. Got to be.”

This was a time when Deke thought it would be nice to have a couple of grenades, or even Private Frazier with his BAR. But they didn’t have any of that.

“Far,” Philly observed.

“You’d be right about that,” Deke said.

But not too far.

Deke grinned.

What he needed was a target. Something to shoot at.

They had to get the sniper to show himself, at least for a moment.

“Hat on a stick?”

“Nah, he ain’t gonna fall for that.”

He knew they had only one chance at this.

“Get ready,” the clerk said. “I’m going to stand up. When I do that, you shoot him.”

“Wait—” Philly said.

“Get ready,” said Deke, gripping his rifle. Nearby, Danilo gave Deke a nod.

An instant later, the clerk stood up, then bobbed back down like a jack-in-the-box. The Japanese sniper shot at him.

But at that exact moment, Deke leaped up and fired.

The Japanese sniper fell, his body draped over the windowsill.

Philly whistled in admiration. “That was some shot, Corn Pone.”

“I reckon I had some help with that one,” Deke said, catching the clerk’s eye. “I wouldn’t go making a habit of that, you crazy dang fool.”

The clerk looked away, but not before a shy smile lit his face.

Everyone seemed to be holding their breath, waiting for the next crack of sniper fire.

The silence was interrupted by shouts behind them and the rumble of a tank. The rest of the company was moving up, possibly with the rest of the division, from the sounds of it, steamrolling up and over the enemy. At least there wouldn’t be any enemy snipers lurking in the ruins to shoot them in the back.

The troops rolled forward, engaging with any Japanese who stood in their way.

Hour by hour, the firing died away.

Before dark, General Bruce, the division commander, had rolled into the city in his Jeep. He was able to walk freely down streets in a manner that a few hours earlier would have gotten him killed.

Pleased, he sent a simple message back to headquarters:

“Have rolled two sevens in Ormoc. Organized Japanese defenses wiped out. Bruce.”

The general’s message said it all.

Ormoc, the last large town on Leyte, was now in US hands.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

Above Ormoc, massive clouds of foul black smoke billowed into the Pacific sky. The retreating Japanese had set their gasoline supplies on fire rather than have it fall into American hands.

“Dammit, we could have used that gas,” remarked a driver who had volunteered to take the wheel of a captured Japanese truck that was now doing double duty, hauling supplies from the beach and serving as an ambulance on the trip back. One arm, and the leg on the opposite side of his body, were heavily bandaged.

Disappointment over the loss of the gasoline was a sentiment shared by many, considering that each drop of fuel had to be laboriously brought ashore. If there was any consolation, it was that the Japanese had no hope of replacing any of the destroyed fuel.

All around Ormoc could be heard the popping sound of exploding ammunition — some of the booms were quite large. In addition to their fuel, the Japanese had also set their ammunition and other supplies ablaze. Their goal was to leave nothing behind that the Americans might be able to use, now that the Japanese had gotten out of Dodge.

The roiling smoke from the burning Japanese stockpiles was proof that the town and nearby airfield were now in American hands, at long last. There remained the threat of Japanese planes pestering the fleet in Leyte Gulf or strafing the GIs on shore, but the threat was much diminished by the capture of the airfield. Of course, there were still many much smaller airfields dotting the Leyte jungle. Light and agile, a Japanese Zero did not require much of a runway to take off and land. One by one, these small air bases would need to be rooted out.

In addition to the wreckage, the toll in human life had been high. Scores of Japanese were now dead. US losses had been surprisingly light — on paper at least. The official number of combat deaths in the fight for Ormoc was listed at thirteen. However, the small number belied the fact that each combat death had been felt severely by his fellow soldiers. There had been a much larger number of wounded, Patrol Easy’s own Alphabet among them. Conditions were not ideal for treating the wounded, but the medical personnel were doing the best they could.

At the edge of town closest to the beachhead, Doc Harmon had set up a rudimentary field hospital — nothing more than a makeshift operating table, some piles of supplies, and tarps set up to keep the sun and weather off the wounded.

As for the tropical flies that settled everywhere, not much could be done about that. Worst among them were the biting flies, a shiny blue-green variety that packed a nasty wallop and raised red welts on unprotected faces, arms, and necks.