Hunter Sniper

“You look like an Indian with that headband,” Philly said.

“Well, I reckon I’m part Cherokee somewhere back down the line, so there’s that.”

Philly took off his own helmet, mopped his head with a rag, and put the helmet back on. “Couldn’t we have picked a cooler spot? It’s like an oven in here.”

“Sure, and we should have brought some ice cream too. Hush now and pay attention.”

“All right, don’t get your shorts in a twist.”

“The main thing is that he can’t see us, but we have a good view of where he’s hiding.”

Philly glassed the buildings opposite them with the binoculars. Deke considered Philly to be a better-than-average shot, at best, maybe a distant third to Alphabet — now out of commission. However, Philly was a damn fine spotter. They made a good team.

Being a good shot wasn’t everything. You also had to be sly and stealthy, a natural-born hunter. Danilo came to mind in that regard. Deke sure as hell wouldn’t want to go up against him out in the jungle.

Hidden somewhere in the ruined buildings across the street, the sniper proved to be a slippery character. He would take just one shot, then move to a different location.

Deke found it disconcerting that this was the exact technique for sniper warfare that Honcho had recommended. The longer that you stayed in one place, the better your chances were of being detected. It was as if the Japanese sniper had been listening in. Usually they stayed put until someone rang their bell for good. Maybe the enemy’s tactics were evolving.

Lying there waiting, Deke thought about the other snipers he had fought. Most recently there had been the nameless enemies in Ormoc who had given him so much trouble. During his feverish state, they’d almost had him licked.

There had been Ikeda, a very tough nut to crack, whom he had finally defeated with a clever ruse during a nighttime fight on a jungle trail.

The sniper that had eluded him was the one that he thought of as the Samurai Sniper, whom he had faced on Guam. That sniper had been more than Deke’s match, but he felt that he had grown more skilled since then. If they ever met again, the outcome might be different.

Anyhow, that marksman had made it onto one of the few boats evacuating Japanese troops as US forces closed in. With any luck, the boat had been sunk by a passing American plane. It was easy for snipers to get caught up in their own private game, one man against another, but even the most skilled sniper wasn’t immune from the whims of the tremendous war going on around him.

Deke’s thoughts were interrupted by the high-pitched crack of an Arisaka rifle.

Feeling pestered and angry, the GIs trying to unload supplies around Ormoc harbor immediately peppered the buildings across the street with a fusillade of angry shots. Their bullets hammered chunks of stone from the walls, kicking up spurts of dust, but it was doubtful that they’d gotten the sniper.

“Now that right there is a waste of government property,” Deke remarked. “It doesn’t take more than one bullet.”

“Sure, if you know what you’re shooting at — and if you can hit it.”

“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Deke said.

The firing died away and they waited.

A lone shot from the ruins verified that the volley had completely missed the enemy sniper.

It seemed impossible, but it slowly got hotter. Sweat accumulated in Deke’s headband. In the heat and quiet, it would have been easy to fall asleep. But there was no chance of that. Never taking his eye from the scope, he slowly swept the muzzle up one side of the street and down the other, then back again, like a restless shark.

“Hey, I see the son of a bitch,” Philly whispered. “See that building that’s kind of pinkish? He’s on the second floor, third window from the left.”

“Yep,” Deke said.

He settled the crosshairs on the window Philly had indicated. Through the telescopic sight, he could just see a shadow, set back from the window itself. No wonder the boys on the ground hadn’t been able to get at him. Wisely, the enemy sniper was firing from deep within the shadows of the room.

Deke felt reassured that the enemy sniper hadn’t spotted him, hiding under the sheet of rusty tin. The wait in the heat had been worth it.

One shot would be all he got before giving away his position.

Could he do it?

Easy now, easy. His finger took up tension on the trigger.

He prayed that the shadow wouldn’t move. So far he still had the enemy sniper in his sights.

He held his breath. The crosshairs never wavered. The rifle fired, the concussion deafening in the cramped hole under the sheet of tin.

He worked the bolt, the still-smoking brass casing spinning away, and immediately resettled the sights on the window. The shadow that had been his target was gone. He had no doubts that he’d taken out the enemy sniper. It was hard to explain, but he had felt the bullet hit.

“That’s that,” he said.

“About time you nailed that son of a bitch,” Philly replied. “Let’s get the hell out of here before my brain melts.”

* * *